Monochromatic Whispers
by Avium
Summary: [Crawford x Ken] When you strip the act of all its emotions, it's just sex. [COMPLETED]
1. 1st Note

**Monochromatic Whispers**

Disclaimers: What I would give…

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 1/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: I said that I would stop writing fanfics for a bit so that I can spend some time reading up on styles and grammar usage. However, it appears that I'm not true to my word. So here you have it – the pairing that I'm currently obsessing over.

Written in 2nd person POV as part of my style experimentation. First off is Crawford's, and the next chapter is Ken's 2nd person POV and so on.

-@-@-@-@-

Routine is something that you don't ever question; routine is something that you are comfortable with. There is nothing more disruptive to your plans than an unforeseen event, so you prize routine above all else. Yet routine can be strangely unpredictable at times as well. It is especially the case when another rather than yourself determines the frequencies of the encounters.

But you do not mind. Not in the least. Because while the boy's desires waxes and wanes, he never leaves you waiting for too long. Predictability so.

Besides, he's waiting for you now. At the usual place, in his usual clothes and sitting in his usual spot. It is best that you hurry over while he is still hesitant about walking away.

But you don't hurry – you never do. That's one of the perks associated with being a clairvoyant: you can see the future. And his future… is to be spent with you for today.

What colour is the sky right now?

A tilted head, followed by the customary snort of disapproval before you lower your gaze to meet the pushing crowds. You never care for looking skywards - a silly waste of time and an accident waiting to happen in the crowded Tokyo streets should you decide to so much as pause. You always move with a destination in mind. Hands bury themselves deep in your pockets, with your right hand occasionally lifting itself out to push your glasses higher up the bridge of your nose. It appears that you aren't in the mood to take note of the wild blue yonder today.

So… what is the colour, Crawford?

Blue - just blue. Grey during the storms, but otherwise always blue.

Oh? Only blue? You never notice that the silk canvas is rippling with an assortment of tones, each shade dancing red and gold against the light of the setting sun? How about the bright ocean-blue kite dotting the sky?

There, a little more to your left - do you see it now? It's trailing a tail of long, whipping ribbons after it. It really seems to be enjoying the evening breeze…

No? You can't see it?

What a pity. It is so pretty.

But you have no use for such unserviceable beauty; do you, Crawford? Everything to you must possess a purpose; it must help you obtain a goal or meet your needs. And most importantly, they must never deny you. Once you've plundered all usefulness from someone or something, they can go to hell for all you care. Heck, you will even give them a hand down to that inferno, won't you? Just to get them out of your sight, lest they come a-begging when it's their rightful turn to solicit aid?

Oh, you have arrived at your destination.

The lady at the front desk doesn't even notice you anymore; she knows that you have the key to the room in question. She also knows that you won't so much as greet her, so she reserves her sweet smile for the other guests – those more likely to hand her a tip or two at any rate. What she doesn't know is that you gave away a duplicate key to another sometime ago. The passing of the room's other 'guest' won't have aroused her attention: he looks so naïve – like a guest's younger brother.

That other is in the room right now - waiting for you. For you and you alone. So ascend the staircase you do – steadily and almost noiselessly. Catlike and predatory.

Strange - you are knitting your eyebrows, as if angry or upset. Why should that be the case? You know who is in there; you know what he wants; and you know what you want. It's a simple, workable system that needs no further modifications as it functions so well for you. So why such an ugly expression?

No answers.

You reach out for the doorknob and twist it open deftly, no hesitance in your movements as you push the door open and step into the room. You already know where he is - he will always be sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with the hem of his shirt as if still doubtful of his decision. But you will tear him away from his solitude by marching right up to his side, take his toying hand away from his attire and pull him up against yourself.

He will look at you, mouth agape in surprise. No matter how many times the two of you have been through this he is still so easily startled - by your overwhelming presence, your towering frame and… your overbearing desire for him.

Another world. Silent except for his irregular breathing and your steady breathes.

This world… has no words. It has only the sound of flesh against flesh, hitched breathing and the occasional vocal betrayal of pleasure that you find with him.

He's so soft and so willing, isn't he? Turquoises looking up at you with such… oh wait, he doesn't seem too pleased, does he? If I don't know any better, I will say that he is ashamed of the response of his body to your expert ministering. Just look at how he is turning away, his lips pressed together thinly as if he is furious. He does that each time - it's almost boring for you to watch. And it grates on your nerves as well… Doesn't he understand how futile are his attempts at defying you?

So what do you do? A razor-thin smile, and your mouth finds its way to that sensitive spot on his neck. You know the movement – a quick flick of your tongue tip against the shivering flesh, followed by the clamping of teeth over the moist skin. There you have it - he is gasping now, eyes wide with surprise at the sudden onslaught of pleasure; and in the same moment you seize the junction of his jeans in a hurried clutch.

He shudders, then once trashing limbs weaken as teeth scrap roughly against the tender skin. He is no longer so intent on denying his own urges. Instead he reaches out to draw you closer, crushing your hips together in a dangerous, heated dance. In the tangle of appendages it is impossible to make out who is reduced to a state of complete undress first. But it doesn't matter the moment you shove him back down against the mattress; when his eyes look back at you to betray the fear and nervousness within him. Then all expressions, all the anger and hatred… it all dissolves when the union is achieved.

It is nothing more than a meeting of flesh with flesh, desires with desires – a fervent, almost angry motion that tips the scales over in both parties' favour. By this time the only thing that holds meaning for you is the seething need to achieve physical gratification. No words and no love – just sex.

When you strip the act of all its emotions, it's just sex.

Sex.

Simple, sensual and salacious.

It is over before you know it. You draw back and out from the heaving boy beneath you, trying to escaping from his vice-like grip as you ease out of him. He won't let go at first, but a reassuring press of your lips to his will usually cause him to pull back his fingernails from your shoulders. You scowl – you know that you will be marked for the next two days at least. But he likes it when you show that you care, or at least when you show that you *might* care; and he lets go of you because of that.

A gentle caress of your fingers against his cheek as you watch him drift off to sleep, then hands lift the slightly creased blanket over him as his gaze breaks away from yours through too-heavy eyelids.

You always wait for him to drift off into unawareness before you even consider leaving, leaning your back against the headboard as you watch sleep ensnare him - all these to create the illusion that you care. It's a deception that you are both deeply aware of, but still keep up despite its obviousness to both. Watchful ambers will peel away from the boy the moment his breathing settles into a steady lull, and you will climb off the bed slowly so as to avoid waking the brunette.

A quick shower to cleanse yourself of the incriminating evidence before getting dressed, followed by a glancing check - the boy is still sleeping peacefully. Clothing articles are retrieved from the end of the bed almost cautiously, and each piece meticulously replaced on your body before you make for the door to leave him to awake alone. As always.

Aren't you forgetting something, Crawford?

You stop a few steps away from the entrance and turn back to look at the room. On the small bedside table is an expensive-looking notepad with the hotel's name printed as the header. Leathered soles begin to make their way towards the table and you reach for the notepad. The Mont Blanc fountain pen leaves your breast pocket and is swiftly uncapped as you take it to the paper supported only by your palm. Your strokes are quick but graceful – a sharp contrast to your way of loving him.

A minute or so later, you leave the room for today. The note sits quietly on the pillow next to the sleeping boy.

_ "Thank you. It had been delightful, as usual."_

~ End chapter 1

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: It's becoming apparent that I have nothing much to write for the BradKen pairing except the sex itself. But I'll let you be the judge of it.


	2. 2nd Note

**Monochromatic Whispers ~ Simple**

Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 2/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: If you're looking for a humour fic, you won't find it here. Trust me on that.

Written in Ken's 2nd person POV. 

-@-@-@-@-

Anger doesn't even begin to describe your feelings, does it? It's sort of a slow burn – the kind the insistently chews you from inside out… No, that doesn't quite hit the mark.

Let's try using a phrase to identify your rage: how about 'FUCKING MAD'?

Ah, well. Close enough for you, I guess. To explain the surge of emotions swirling around in you will require one to descend to the deepest chasms where dead, long-forgotten words are buried. And you must excuse me for not wanting to go down to that place – I may get mugged by a Choler or an Umbrage. And I may not even find the word to begin describing your rage.

The cause for your anger is nothing new to you. This is because it's not the first time that you've set out to meet him for such an encounter. In fact, you even consider it to be a ritual of some sort: go to the room, wait for his precognition to kick in, get fucked and then having to wake up to face his empty half of the bed afterwards. They have a term for such events, Ken. 

It's called 'routine'.

He is gone by the time you stir. It's nothing unexpected to you – you had walked into this room knowing full well the sequence of events to take place. Perhaps you can find comfort within the predictability of these matings; perhaps that is why you return to this place again and again, always fully aware of what is to follow.

It is puzzling that you actually derive comfort from routines. In your daily life you can hardly bear to live within the confines of Weiß and under the thumb of Kritiker. Flowers, mission briefings, murders; flowers, mission briefings, murders…

There is a song in there… somewhere.

Or maybe… it isn't the routine but rather, something else that you find pleasurable?

You don't want to think too much about this – you will be wanted back at the shop soon enough. So you prop your elbows up under yourself to hoist your body out of bed, only to have your gaze settling over the thin sheet of paper on the pillow beside you.

Steady fingers reach over for the note, retrieving it from the cold fabric. Involuntarily you shiver as your skin registers for the first time the temperature in the room. The blanket was pulled over you while you were sleeping had been a substantial buffer against the cold, although you cannot for the life of you remember how it came to cover you in the first place…

… No, you decided – it isn't like him to do such a thing. As far as you are concerned, he is only in it for the sex. Didn't he tell you that the first time he took you for his own? You have no reasons to think that he may have changed his mind afterwards.

You turn your thoughts away from the memories – they are too laughable to have you waste time pondering over. As your fists start to ball the dry crinkle of the paper draws your attention back to it. Pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, you bring the note before you to scan its contents, fingers smoothing over its surface as you read its contents in silence. There are but two neat rows of black inked words. Maybe they are just a grouping of letters, or maybe they mean more. You don't know, and you don't really want to care either.

Is that why you look away as you crush the note into a tiny ball within your fist? 

A tight pressing of your lips together as you finger the little paper ball absentmindedly, then a 3-point toss into the wastepaper basket near the entrance to the washroom. You look away as soon as the paper ball disappears among the small pile of tissues. In fact, you never once cast your eyes towards the note as you enter and exit the washroom, determinedly holding your gaze fast ahead of you. You are resolved to not remember his callous attitude.

But still you look back once – just once – as you close the door to the room. You stop somewhat apprehensively, head turning around slowly and uncertainly as turquoises return to look at the wicket-woven wastepaper basket. A low sign escapes you, your expression resembling that of a man hoping against reality for the note to speak. But eventually logic overrides desire and you pull yourself forcefully away from the ever-silent abode.

There are no spoken words to be had from a handwritten note. 

-@-@-@-@-

You are attending to the potted plates with the red-handled clipper as usual, trimming off dead buds and dried leaves. You pause to pick up the fallen pieces between each swish of the blades, performing your task in silence. The lunchtime crowd is disappearing fast, making it easier for you to pick up snatches of words here and there. Around you the store buzzes with drifts of conversations – each sentence seeming to float off into Neverland halfway through. None of them make sense to you. At least, not when you are trying to concentrate on your work.

They know better than to disturb you when you are welding the clippers. Even Aya glares seem softer whenever he sees you so absorbed in your work. Before the team settled into comfortable familiarity, once too often have they tried to engage you in simple banter while you are busy. It usually resulted in you giving them a look of bewilderment while uttering a characteristic "huh?", and then they will slap their foreheads theatrically while bemoaning your lack of attentiveness (Aya will settle for a disgruntled snort before walking away). Either that, or you quite literally drop what you were doing and end up with a typical Hidaka mess. With time came the illusion that a working Hidaka Ken shall not be disturbed, lest he makes another dramatic display of clumsiness. 

You used to ponder over the significance being labelled a klutz, but after a while the label no longer bothers you. After all, they never seem to consider the possibility that you are really trying to do some serious thinking when you are attending to the plants; it's been much easier for you to do that once the shop tasks settled into mechanical motions. Being rudely jerked out of your thoughts usually resulted in the abovementioned blunders. But to try and convince them of your cerebrally inclined pastime may earn you a bout of rude, disbelieving staring. No, thanks. Everyone needs a little quiet time, even you. And you especially relish the silence that follows you as you perform your duties. 

You'll enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

"You're kidding – 77 roses at this time of the year? Where did this jerk go during Valentine's Day?" You don't even have to turn around to imagine the raised eyebrows on the tall blonde's face. There goes the silence that you so crave.

Fuck Yohji.

Secretly, you wonder what is the huge fuss over an order of roses. The thought of a shortage crosses your mind briefly, but you recall seeing to a new shipment of those red blossoms yesterday…

"What is the ruckus about, Yohji? Did the customer forget to pay?" You hear Aya's voice cutting into the rapidly dispersing hush. Quietly, you remain crouching over the drooping pot of geraniums, fingers slowly trailing along the sad-looking petals. With your train of thought so abruptly derailed, you find yourself now filled with a strange curiosity to know how the rest of this exchange will play out. But you don't want them to think that you are eavesdropping either. 

The slow but sure mutilation of the geranium ensures as your fingers squeeze a little too hard on the delicate petals.

"Oh yes, the customer paid alright. It's just that it's strange to order so many roses without including a card with the bouquet. He even made a request to leave the stupid thorns on… wait – there's a name on the payment receipt. Actually, it's an initial. Want to put a complimentary note card in there since this is a large order?" 

77 roses and not even an uttering of the customer's name? Another one of the odd Romeo-wannabe types, you figure. But this one… he sounds shady. You've never been very good at picking up vibes from around you, especially not from an unseen face, but this customer intrigues you – a lot.

Silently, you rise to your feet and turn to face them, your expression revealing that you have a good idea of what the entire conversation is about – a careless dropping of the unconcerned mask that you wore only moments ago. Yohji seems rather stunned by the fact that you have been listening to them all along, but he offers a kind smile while gesturing you over. Automatically, your feet carry you over to the two tall florists. 

Mustering up the tone of someone who is both confused and curious, you utter the first question that comes to mind - "When did the order come in?" 

In reply, the blonde fishes into his apron pocket, rooting out two slightly crumpled sheets before handing it over to you. "Just about 30 minutes ago by fax. The confirmation receipt for the bank transfer came right after that. Man, what a big spender. I wonder who the lucky girl is…" Yohji grins while looking at you. But you don't return his gaze – you are too busy reading through the printouts. On the payment transfer receipt you find the information that you so seek.

Your heart skips a beat when you mentally read aloud the customer's initials.

How many people are there in Japan with such a unique initial? Your mind keeps going back to a certain pair of molten ambers, but at the same time the rational part of you is just screaming, "He's not going to be stupid enough to order flowers from YOUR workplace!" 

Your fingers press harder into the paper, causing small fingernail marks to be impressed into the white surface…

"No," Aya's voice cuts through your thoughts, "If he didn't ask for a card; don't be a busybody by including one. Just get the order packed up and delivered… did he say when and where?"

Yohji reaches over to take the paper from you, tugging at it with little force. At first you resist his attempts almost unconsciously, hands clamping down over the sheets mechanically while still looking down at the black fonts. But none of the words are being absorbed right now – the sea of questions forming within you is threatening to wipe out your line of physical vision. You are seeing the words, but they appear to be blurry and untouchable as if in a dream.

"Oi, Ken. Let go of the paper. I'll give you more carbon to inhale later if you like, okay?" The teasing tone reaches you at last, and with a slight flush over your cheeks you relinquish your hold over the paper. To be caught daydreaming over pieces of paper is not going to sit well with Aya.

The blonde lifts the paper up to Aya, pointing at a set of neatly typed-out words on the order form. 

"It's this hotel about 6 stations from here. It's got to be there by 5 o'clock today, but I don't know if Omi will be back with the scooter by then…" Yohji doesn't look exactly thrilled with the prospects of making a delivery with his set of wheels. 

You lean over to look at the address being pointed out; causing Aya to shift slightly to one side to accommodate your slow but sure advances into his personal space. But you are not aware that you are invading his personal space, are you? You just want to look at what is on the paper.

A sudden dryness rises and smashes hard against your throat once you register the address. The dull thudding of your heart seems to jump a beat as you re-read the address. Then you close your eyes, counting slowly to 5 before opening them to re-read it – almost as if you expect the words to morph into something else in the meantime. To change into anything but the address you *think* you are seeing now…

Okay, maybe it skips six beats instead as turquoise pools carefully assess the fax in silent denial. But there is no hiding of the shock written across your features. A slight shifting of Aya's body slaps you back to reality – you have no reasons to be gawking at an order in such a manner. It'll only make the rest of the team suspicious.

"Erm, very… large order? I'll deliver it later, okay, guys?" By this time, your body is no longer listening to your head – they are working on their own accord: as your tongue proves in a very 'duh' moment. Inwardly you pray for any God out there to show some compassion and have Aya insist on Yohji doing the delivery instead, but…

"That'd be swell, Ken, thanks! I have a date at 5.30 and I don't want to be late…" Aya frowns at this point, but his annoyance goes unacknowledged by Yohji as the blonde loops an arm around your shoulders – "So come help me prepare the bouquet, will you?"

You soon find yourself being half-dragged, half-pushed towards the backroom – not quite resisting the gentle pressure against your back in your half-dazed state. Abruptly, you plant your feet firmly against the ground, causing Yohji to bump into your back awkwardly. You ignore his indignant pout as you direct a question to the retreating redhead.

"What do 77 roses mean, Aya?"

He pauses in mid-step, amethysts turning to stare back at you in his usual feline manner. Only one words leaves his lips before he tears his gaze away:

"Destiny."

-@-@-@-@-

You remind yourself that you don't believe in this 'destiny' bullshit; it is just a make-believe concept that people come up with to explain why they have to deal with the world thrusting crazy things at them. 

Or as Yohji once so eloquently put it – "Karma giving you the shaft with a flagpole". 

You leave your motorcycle outside the hotel, and at your usual parking spot no less. Untying the huge bouquet from the lashings around your seat, you are hit by the sheer surrealistic nature of the moment. 

Your delivery is destined for the room that belongs to him. Your delivery is destined for the room that belongs to you. Your delivery is destined for the room that you two *share*. And you don't have an inkling of an idea to explain this strange turn of events. 

You swallow as if nervous, or unsure. But why should you be? You know this place almost as well as your own room; you probably have the room's blueprint imprinted in your mind. Is it the lack of understanding of situation at hand that is causing you such unease? Or are you more concerned with the possibility of finding someone else in that room?

Shaking your head you decided – no, you don't want to think about it. You just want to go into the room, get the delivery signed for and then leave as soon as you arrive. You assure yourself that it is all you will do, that you won't let him play his meaningless games with your head. 

Steeling yourself through a visible flexing of your arms, you hold the bouquet in front of you like a shield as you walk past the entrance. The receptionist lifts her head, her eyes betraying surprise at your arrival. You never expect her to question you when you arrive – she used to cast only a fleeting glance at you whenever you come by. But today she stares at you, holding you involuntarily to the spot before requesting in a clear voice the purpose of your visit.

"Bouquet delivery," you mumble, not quite meeting her questioning look. Her mouth takes the shape of a soundless 'O' before she waves you on your way.

You take the elevator today, oddly enough. You used to take the stairs up to the room in the past, but now you just want to get the delivery done and over with. As you arrive at the door, you automatically reach for the key you constantly keep in your pocket, but you halt in your movements the moment your fingers close over the cold metal as your lowered gaze notices the now-ajar door.

You look up, and there he is holding the door open.

Automatically you become defensive – turquoises harden with rage as they meet cool ambers. Indifference towards your anger is evident in his movements as he reaches for the delivery receipt sticking out of your pocket, withdraws it and pens his signature over the dotted line before folding it back up nicely to hand it over to you. With practiced familiarity you hand him the bouquet. He receives it wordlessly and turns to set it down on the bed. You seize the chance to steal a peek into the room, your heart thudding loudly against your ribcage as your eyes scan for signs of the bouquet's recipient.

The next thing you know he is standing before you, obstructing your view completely. How in the world does he move that fast?

He seizes the hand that you have against the doorframe, peeling your grip away easily. Your instinct is to fight back, but before you can react he moves again. His other hand reaches over to catch you around the waist and thrust you against himself. Hard flesh contacts harder flesh. 

In that instant the victor is determined.

The door slams shut; a click as the automatic lock activates. But you only remember hearing the sound of his breathing – hot puffs of air against your lips before they shove against yours in a hungry kiss. You can barely recount the dizziness you feel as he lifts you off the ground and crushes you against the wall. You only remember the heat of the slowly grinding hips and your hands cupping his cheeks to pull his eating mouth closer – if it is possible to close the already non-existent distance between the two of you.

He is the first to break the intimacy, as always – jerking his head backwards to leave your kiss-bruised lips still aching and wanting. He avoids your attempt at pulling him back towards yourself, instead gripping you by your wrists. He then casts a smirk at you before spinning you down onto the bouquet-occupied bed.

The rose thorns make their presence known to your back immediately, and you try to pull yourself away from the cutting thorns as your weight crushes the ribbon against the stalks – it slices the ribbon neatly into two, fanning the roses out along the mattress. There is no place free from agony to lie on now, and you make a desperate attempt to lift yourself away from the prickling flowers. But he is on you before you know it – firmly holding you down to give your skin sufficient time to blossom with tiny red flowers. All this while he keeps one hand busy with the task of shedding you of your clothes before he turns the attention upon his own suit. 

Once naked, the thorns mark you harder and quicker. You can feel the sharp points sliding around your skin, jamming against your flesh before your mortality gives itself away. Your wounded body registers the thorns puncturing your skin to drink at the fluids within; perhaps you can even hear the low "pop" signalling the roses' triumph over you. However you are only concerned with the man lording over you – the one putting you under such torment in the first place.

You know that it will be useless to plead with him. Inwardly you try to come up with a reason so that he may consider changing the location of the mating for once. You decide to point out to him that you are crushing the flowers that he had paid a small fortune for.

Then you realise that it isn't the flowers that he paid for.

Brad Crawford had paid for your arrival; he had paid for your body's services today.

Suddenly, you feel cheap. Like a whore.

You dully feel him shoving into you. You remember more the shame and disgust you experience at his trickery, although he soon cleans the anger in your mind away in a meticulously timed nip against your neck. You surrender to the swirling pool of brief pleasure in pain.

He is careful to avoid the biting flowers by pressing against your wrists as he claims you for his own. You wind up suffering the cuts in his place.

His mouth works on your shoulder for a second too long and draws your attention towards his ministering. As soon as you turn to face him he descends his mouth against yours yet again. You find yourself tasting your own blood on his tongue. How strange it is to know yourself through another…

It ends as abruptly as the event began – the warmth flooding you from the inside while your own heat splashes against his torso as you moan into the halted kiss. His tongue flicks against yours only after the pulsing between your thighs subsides; only after when he is able to concentrate on something else besides the euphoria of the mating. Breathing harshly through his mouth he pulls back to look down at you – your trembling, flushed form – before he turns to the task of making the bed somewhat more comfortable for you. Bruised and naked roses drift to the carpeted floor with each sweep of his hand. 

You suddenly decide that something will change today.

Instead of lying back down against the now-cleared mattress, you sit at the edge of the bed facing away from him. The sensation of a pair of eyes burning into your back is almost too much to bear, but you resist the desire to turn around to face them. Because you know your resolve will crumble once he glares at you in his superior manner.

Silence reigns in the room for perhaps five minutes, or maybe fifteen minutes… or maybe even an hour. You're not sure, because you don't have your watch with you. At length a low, steady breathing catches your attention. Turning around, you come to face the sight of him sleeping on his side of the bed.

Strangely enough, you feel comfortable seeing him at ease…

No, you remind yourself – there is something that you have to do. You scan the room for some writing paper, but only manage to locate the same notepad that he used to address you with the last time. Then you remember keeping some old grocery receipts in your wallet – so you reach for the leather billfold and extract from it a slightly faded stub of reasonable size. Supporting the paper against your cuts-marked palm, you wince as you bring his fountain pen to the white surface. So you write large and fast.

The note prepared, you perform a quick cleanup with a nearby towel before clothing yourself to leave. Before you go you pause to take a look at him. It is so strange to see him sleeping so comfortably after what he had done. Has he no guilt? Does he have no concern at all for you?

You bite your lip, forcing yourself to look away. Of course he has no concern for you – you both know it from the start. You tug your gaze away in time with the shutting door.

It will be a few hours later before he wakes up to find your note.

_ "Why do you want me so much?"_

~ End chapter 2

-@-@-@-@-

Author's note: The meaning of the 77 roses may have a more local context (Singapore), but I think it works well in this fic. The 'destiny' represented by the gift of 77 roses has a romance implication i.e. 'our fated love', but Crawford is taking it at a literal, impersonal level i.e. 'your fate'. So don't think too much over this.


	3. 3rd Note

**Monochromatic Whispers ~ Sensual**

Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 3/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: I apologise for the sensuality overkill that you are about to face.

Written in Crawford's 2nd person POV. 

-@-@-@-@-

You understand that it had always been your rights, your entitlement. No, we are not talking about your privileges to his body. After all, you are the one paying for this room, right? This place barely sees to other uses, the sheets being broken in but once every few moons for a single purpose. Surely there is nothing wrong with testing the bed for its intended purpose – it being a place to rest a weary body?

That had been part of your reasoning when you chose to meet his defiance with such an action.

You stir to the choking silence of the room without him, knowing that he is no longer there even without looking. Automatically you reach for the spectacles on the bedside table, still deciding to risk a brief scan of the room for him. 

He is, of course, no longer there. But for a moment, you are thinking… you think… Perhaps…

Yes, there had been a premonition. You won't do anything before consulting your Gift, especially when it came to doing something as reckless as falling asleep in his presence. The vision had been a blurred, confusing one; it only told you to lie down and rest – nothing more and nothing less. In spite of the oddity of the premonition, you had not questioned it and simply went with the flow.

Because you know once you start questioning your visions, nothing will ever be tangible for you again. You do not need that kind of uncertainty taking over your life.

You adjust your glasses, pushing them higher up the bridge of your nose with simple familiarity. He is no longer there – you already know. So why are you still searching out the room? 

Stop looking.

Ambers quit their quest and instead turn to glance at the blanket still neatly folded up at the foot of the bed. Isn't he just delightfully caring? Perhaps there is no longer the need for you to keep up with the illusion of dutiful concern?

It is not to say that you had not anticipated such a move from him – nothing can ever escape you, especially when the matters pertain to him. You have seen it in his eyes a few hours ago when he first appeared with the delivery – there had been no greater show of anger from him to date. Even without your Gift explicitly foretelling you the boy's actions, you could read from his movements alone that he didn't want to ease into a slumber so readily today. So perhaps it was out of strange curiosity that you had obliged him. You don't expect yourself to repeat this show of generosity anytime soon.

Now… what has he done in the meantime? 

You turn to look at the empty half of the bed, noting a few small specks of dark crimson staining the sheets, with perceptibly more of the fluids smearing the lower half of the mattress. You were not unkind when claiming his body today, but you had been forceful – as always. Rose thorns and soft flesh don't make for a very friendly combination, you decide, even if the sacrifice had exhibited magnificent beauty when marred by the vicious blossoms. 

It is therefore only natural that the yellowing paper on his pillow also goes unnoticed amidst the cream-and-red spread – overlooked against the strange draw of his red liquid.

Ah – a note. 

How very predictable.

You reach for the small piece of paper, thumbing the words that he had written on it. He had used your fountain pen uninvited – you hope that he had not spoilt the nib through his usual carelessness. 

Bringing the note before you, you digest his words quickly – taking more notice of the bloody specks shining through from the underside of the paper. Smirking, you turn the note over; given his straightforward character his words are expected. You choose to read it then as an outright challenge towards the terms of this arrangement.

You will make the boy *want*. Then perhaps he will not be so inclined to label you as the sole instigator the next time. It'll save you much work on the next encounter too.

Amber eyes fall over the flipped paper. You find it intriguing that he had chosen to communicate with you using an old receipt instead of using the hotel's notepad. How very peculiar of him to not want to share writing paper with you even after such intimacies. Such pride the boy has; it is no wonder that he appeals to you.

The machine-printed letterings have faded from the friction generated in his wallet, but it is not hard to make out the finer details on the receipt. It's from a grocery store near his workplace; and you are able to work out from the list of purchases that he does the shopping for his team. 

In other words, he is giving you a hint as to where he frequents – to give you an equal chance of seeking him out; to make this arrangement more… balanced.

A deep breathe, effectively filling your lungs with the scent of roses – their essence having bled out from the crushed petals and soaked into all corners of the room. Briefly you wonder how he will explain to his team the overpowering fragrance following him when he returns to the shop. Maybe he will be grateful, for it hides from them the stench of his bloodied flesh; or maybe he will just creep in using the backdoor to avoid any questions. 

Attention returns to the paper in your hands, and you convert the address to memory before tearing it into thin strips and disposing it carelessly over the roses littering the floor.

At the moment, your expression is best described as a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Does he expect you to search him out on your own accord, you wonder. Does he derive pleasure from such a possibility?

You make to move towards the washroom by lifting yourself up, and a single thorn slides itself into the soft underside of your foot as you trod over a bent rose. Immediately you squeeze your eyes shut as you utter a low hiss of pain, falling back onto the mattress and lifting your foot up to inspect the injury. 

You have had worse than this, but somehow the thought of dislodging the thorn makes you uneasy. A hand moves over the embedded thorn, pressing the flesh around it to ease the foreign object out before you yank it out swiftly. For a moment it looks as if the wound will close off and disappear, but all too soon an obvious red droplet begins to form. You watch the blood flow until the droplet threatens to fall to the ground, reaching out in time to brush the crimson away with a finger. Absentmindedly you squeeze the bedspread with the same hand and blot it with your blood. 

Accursed roses. 

You lift yourself off the mattress, taking care not to tread on the flowers this time as you make your way over. As you enter the bathroom you observe that it looks as clean as ever. Obviously the boy lacks personal hygiene, but you will overlook the fact for one simple reason – he knows exactly what is yours and what is his, and the only thing that he has claim over in this room is the other half of the bed.

A deft twist of the shower knob, and cold water splatters over your skin instantly. Your body reacts by tensing up briefly at the sudden change in temperature before the muscles relax enough for you to resume the cleansing ritual. 

You can smell the floral oil as it slides off your skin and down the drain. There is no doubting the fact that you will carry with you the scent of roses wherever you decide to go today. Perhaps Schuldich will make a snide comment about it, but you are too well shielded against him to worry about his prying nature. The others will wisely say nothing.

A snaking trail of pink among the flowing water – is that blood, or is that the red dye of the roses?

You reach over to turn the shower off, water-heavy raven locks cascading over your face as you watch the last of the coloured liquid drain away. When you are drying yourself off with the towel you find yourself wondering if the white cotton will soak up the blood from his cuts more efficiently than his denim attire. 

Of course, it is just out of pure curiosity that you spare brain cells over such a question.

After attiring yourself to leave, you turn to cast a contemptuous look at the shredded paper dotting the ocean of red petals, hoping that the boy will be able to sense your burning glare through the note that he wrote. The boy is being foolish, you decide, as you exit the room. 

There is only one thought on your mind for the rest of the day.

You *will* make the boy *want*.

-@-@-@-@-

You know the roads of this area well in spite of the fact that Japan is notoriously hard to navigate to a foreigner. But you have spent over 2 years in the country already, making the task slightly easier.

Besides, even if you don't know your way around, your visions will guide you just as well.

However, you have an address in your head today. You've been running it over your mind in loops for the past few days, simply bidding your time before a vision surfaced. It is a dead useful talent, isn't it? But you find it a bit of a pity that the visions concerning the boy come less frequently, and even then they will appear a little too suddenly for you. 

You adjust your spectacles as you stay watch from behind tinted windows within your car – parking by the tree-shaded roadside where you remain cleverly obscured. It is sufficient to shield you from any casual, curious glances while allowing you to watch the on-goings clearly. 

A white flash – then a monochromatic image appears before your eyes. Colour seeps into the image, as water will with a piece of fabric. You register a vision of the boy strolling down the aisle of a medium-sized grocery store, picking items off the shelves as he walks past them. Occasionally he will stop, pull out a list from his breast pocket and inspect it before tucking it away again. A gust of strangely warm wind follows that vision, and after blinking your eyes, you fall back into the real world – where the hard folds of the leather slipcover you are sitting on reminds you of where you are now.

You turn your head towards the grocery store across the street from where you have parked your car. The opaque, blue-tinted glass spanning along the entire length of the store intrigues you – obviously these people lack the common sense to place security over aestheticism. It is just begging to be broken into late at night. But you do not mind – their stupidity works to your advantage today because looking past the glass wall you can see what you so seek.

He is in there, just as your vision had shown you – completely oblivious towards your presence.

You watch him as he picks items off the shelves one after another, strolling down the aisles with a bouncing stride of casual abandon. It is the kind of movement that can only be found in young lovers or inspired artists. But there he is – one foot sliding ahead of the other again and again as he… is he humming? 

How very curious. 

Observing the items that he plucks off the shelves, you come to the conclusion that he is shopping for his teammates at the same time – there is no way he drinks that much beer. There is something about his easy-going nature that makes him the most suitable candidate for such chores, and his teammates do not seem to have any qualms about leaving such a task to his hands. 

It is also possible that he never enjoys this chore, but does it without complaint in order to keep the peace. Such self-sacrifice amuses you.

Just as your visions have shown you: he removes a piece of paper from his pocket, checks it against the items in his basket and puts the paper away before moving down to the next aisle. At least he doesn't lack the good sense to shop by the aisles – it makes the process quicker and more efficient. And the sooner the better for you, is it not?

You study his happy gait as he makes his way towards the cashier's slowly and surely, his pace seeming to pick up in spite of the increasing weight of the basket in his hands. Why is he in such a good mood, you wonder?

He grins as he swings the blue plastic basket onto the cashier's table. The movement elicits a smile from the kindly-looking old cashier who proceeds to chat him up. It is clear from his lazy stance and goofball grin that he is on friendly terms with the woman. You watch him as he picks up a tube of candy from the nearby stand and drop it among the groceries. She puts on a mock-chiding expression before he disarms her with his bright grin: basically looking all for the world like the woman's son or grandson. 

You cannot fathom why he should be on such friendly terms with the cashier when it is his rights to be served by her – such ties to you are at best empty or pretentious. She makes to bag his groceries for him, only to be stopped when he insists on doing it himself so she can see to the next customer in line. Unblinking amber eyes monitor his movements closely but half-heartedly. 

You are merely waiting for the moment to present itself. 

Here he comes now – swinging a few weighed-down white plastic bags as he exits the store. You continue to bid your time until he comes within a few feet of your car. It is only then that you lean over to open the door. You will not trouble yourself to rise out of your seat, or your vehicle for that matter.

His light steps turn to lead in the same instant that the door beckons, and he bends over to peer into the car. You detect but the smallest traces of innocent curiosity in his movements, but the moment his gaze falls into yours his body stiffens and his fists begin to tighten around the rustling bags. He is wearing an expression that combines surprise and shock. You pull yourself back into an upright posture before slowly sliding your hands over the steering wheel to grasp it idly. You break your gaze from the boy soon after – you expect him to do nothing less than to accept today's arrangements as it is shown. 

A movement is detected out of a corner of your eye, and you risk a sideway glance. Ambers widen under titanium frames as the blue-clad body disappears from your view.

Why? Is he just walking away like this? He is no longer standing outside the door…

You very nearly risk whipping your head around at that moment, but the door to the backseats swings open, and the low thud of groceries against the foot mats follows soon after. Ah – he is just putting his shopping away properly. 

You loosen your suddenly tight hold on the steering wheel, and you finally release your caught breath. By the time he moves to the front seat that you've offered him you have steeled your face into cool indifference once again. Avoiding your eyes, he slips onto the cooled leather seat and start pulling at the safety belt. You wait until the grey strap comes within your reach before you stretch your hand out for it, effectively cupping his hand in yours as you assist him in buckling up for the ride. His skin feels pleasantly warm to the touch, and you find yourself a little hesitant to remove your hand from his when a click is emitted from the buckle to indicate that it is safely in place. But you manage to do so without hinting at anything that may be out of place – save for the visible swallow you make as the brakes are removed.

So far, so good.

The black vehicle pulls onto the main road and makes for the trickle of late afternoon traffic leading towards the edge of the city. Out of a corner of your eye you detect motion, and you turn to face him. He is just reaching for the button to turn on the radio. You won't stand for that – not the radio stations, but rather, the fact that he is doing something to your car when uninvited.

Taking one hand off the wheel, you bat his drifting hand away from the button, only to end up knocking the device to life yourself. The interior of the car is instantly filled with the low buzz of news reports. 

You scowl to yourself, surprised that you can be so careless. What makes your fumble even harder to swallow is the fact that you have done so in front of the boy. You register a soft chuckle, causing you to turn and grace him with an impatient glare. How dare he derive amusement from your mistake?

No, he is looking at the little red bars on the stereo display, clearly entertained by the jumble of English being broadcasted on the BBC. There is no way that he understands such fluent English, so the reason for his soft laughter escapes you. But at least he is no longer posing as powerful a distraction as previously…

Of course, he is merely being distracting through his laughter; it is not his presence that draws your attention. 

Is that really so, Brad Crawford?

Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't. But you will not allow this question to bother you any further. After all, the hand that he had placed on your thigh in the meantime is even more perturbing.

Your first thought is to berate him for such an unwelcome gesture, but the green light is forcing you to return your eyes to the road before you cause an accident. That will be far worse than having to deal with his intrusion of your personal space, so you force yourself to look straight ahead before hitting the gas. Knuckles turn a shade paler than usual as your digits squeeze around the steering wheel harder – as if such a movement will make the car go faster and thus bring you closer to a red light or your destination so that you will be able to rebuke him.

You have probably forgotten how useful the gas pedal can be.

A red light – suddenly infinitely more appealing to you than on regular occasions. The car slows to a halt and you finally have the chance to push his hand away. But you choose to shrug against your jacket, sighing in a mock doleful manner as you flex your arms around the shoulder holster that you usually have strapped on. The holstered gun moves a little too obviously even under the heavy fabric, and the boy wisely lifts his hand away. At the same time he turns his head away from you, and for the rest of the drive the only times that you can see his eyes are from the reflections in his side window. It pleases you, but at the same time makes you uncomfortable – because the reflections are too blurred for you to make out his emotions from the darkened glass. 

Is he upset? Is he angry? Is he thinking to himself? You find yourself wanting to question him, only to end up mentally reprimanding yourself for merely harbouring the desire to speak to him. After all, you had set the rule down yourself, and neither one of you have ever sought to challenge it:

_No words. Just sex._

That is all that will ever be between the both of you. And you will see that it stays as thus.

A familiar grey-dappled building draws into sight, and you can almost feel the tension coursing on his side of the car. It causes a small smile to break out on your lips, and for the first time since he had accepted today's offer you begin to feel confident of a victory. You turn the wheel steadily, driving the car down into the underground carpark. The place is strangely dark – most of the lights seem to have burnt out ages ago, although a few stray bulbs still manage to flicker on and off unpredictably. One has to accept certain inconveniences and sloppiness of location if he wants anonymity to go with his licentious pursuits, I suppose.

You ease the car into an empty parking spot and peel your hands away from the steering wheel. But instead of reaching for the doorknob you turn towards the boy. You can barely make out his silhouette against the grey darkness. The darkened figure seems to grow before your eyes – a trickery of the lack of lighting, you reason, when it becomes apparent that it is simply the boy moving towards you.

A white flash from a faraway bulb, and it illuminates the boy's face for the briefest of moments. You notice first of all his ocean-blue eyes – the intensity in them as they meet your gaze. The sudden brightness had also lit his skin up with a quaint whiteness, and you find yourself reaching over to gingerly brush the back of your fingers against his cheek as if to test for human warmth – he had looked so pale and so distant at that moment that it left you wondering…

It had simply left you wondering.

A soft clicking sound emits from the lower region of the interior, and the scrapping sound of a receding safety belt cuts through the hush. You can also hear slightly uneven breathing coming from him before he embraces you with sudden warmth that you neither welcome nor reject. A puff of warm air against your ear is felt as his face draws a closer; following which he floods your senses with his presence as he slides across his own seat to straddle his weight over your body. As he is lowering himself over you he drags a finger across the stereo to carefully flick off the trail of speech, effectively weaving a spell of silence over the tiny enclosed space. 

The whisperings of stiff fabric under his hands becomes unnaturally loud against the black stillness as he settles both hands over your chest. It leaves you feeling exposed; there is no doubt that he can gauge the speed of your heartbeats even with a three-piece suit between his skin and yours. You do not want him to read your body so intimately, so you straighten yourself against the back of your seat, the movement causing his curved palms to pad around your collar instead.

He lifts his fingertips to press against the underside of your jaw, coaxing you to look up to meet his gaze. As you oblige him another stray light flickers, reflecting off the rim of your lenses and casting a shard of pearl-like luminance against the curve of his lips. 

You can feel your resolve weakening and your desires for him growing.

But that isn't how things are supposed to turn out, you remind yourself. He isn't supposed to be so meek and gentle in his movements at all. Hadn't it always been hurried and fierce between the both of you? It is the natural pattern that you have fallen into. Why should things change now? Especially since this change had not been foreseen…

Still you decide to taste the exotic fruits first, before you make to release the boat into the too-familiar sun-scorched waters.

You tilt your head further upwards, nudging your nose against the underside of his chin as you do so. He betrays bewilderment as he peers down at you. And you… you give him a smile that is uniquely yours in all its cold calculation. That is how the game usually commences, isn't it?

But the next step surprises you as much as him.

The cruel smirk softens around its edges as you brush your fingers against his lips – silently marvelling at the unbroken perfection. It is something that you pay little attention to, preferring to end each meeting as soon as it begins. But today you find yourself musing over the possibility of embarking on the foreign path of slowly, grating eroticism. 

So you ease him down towards your parted lips, sealing the meeting with an open-mouthed, possessive kiss. He must have been surprised by the direction that you are taking him in today – he barely moves for the next few seconds while you do all the work of plundering his mouth with deep kisses. When he responses at last his movements seem almost tentative, perhaps even a little shy.

Such strange games to be partaking in.

You can feel his hands kneading over your suit in the manner of a kitten inspecting its sleeping quarters, but soon the gentility of his movement gives way to fumbling fingers as he sheds you of your formal jacket; a layer less of obstruction. You try hard to focus on the kiss, but as if to match the fervour of his efforts you begin to probe a little harder and more insistently. 

The distinction of two bodies fades in the face of heated wantings. It becomes harder to tell his advances apart from your own. Then almost abruptly you jerk to the awareness of his hardness shoved against your stomach. His hands come to grasp at your cheeks harshly before shoving his lips against yours with alien intensity while he grinds himself down against your hips – brutally.

A small part of you starts to laugh.

You pull back from his mouth forcefully, ignoring his baffled expression while you proceed to fold your discarded jacket with measured unhurriedness. Even without looking at him you are aware of the effect that your actions have on him, and as if to torment him further you lift your hips off the seat slightly to press against him with sly intimacy.

He gasps, and the hold on your shoulders tightens. 

That darker side of you threatens to burst with cruel laughter. But you grace him with no more than a sneer as you return your gaze to him. He manages to recognise something dangerous in your eyes – just as you want him to. What follows will have you labelled as a tease (if such a coy term fitted his view of you) – with you making a great show of dragging your tongue down his jaw line and towards that sensitive spot on his neck. You can feel the pulsing liquid rushing against your mouth as you descend upon that patch of skin, and it becomes almost impossible to resist piercing the delicate tissue with your teeth. So mark him you do with rough, scrapping nibbles.

He seems to enjoy it, too.

This time you do laugh aloud – a short, triumphant one that he does not seem to hear. The sound seems to disappear into the patch of skin where you have placed your mouth over, making you wonder if he can feel your delight.

The stage is set. 

You throw an arm around his waist to pull him closer, thereby interlocking your lower bodies while giving you space to manoeuvre your limbs. The car door opens, and the once private sanctuary becomes not so private any longer when the roar of the ventilation system slices through the warm muteness. You smile at the confused, blinking turquoise eyes before lifting him out of the car. It takes him a moment to find his footing after you release him. 

He bears striking resemblance to a cornered prey at this moment, and seems to shy away in the manner of one such creature when you cast him one of your superior glares. Will you waste your time making your wishes known to him? 

You begin to make for the back stairway. Of course you will not bother with any explanations. He only has to follow you, and follow you he does. His flustered face and heavy breaths do not escape your senses even when you face your back to him.

There are 5 flights of stairs to ascend before you reach the floor where your room is on. You cover 4 storeys without so much as a glance backwards; you know that he is walking behind you because of his footsteps. But still you decide to risk a peek at him halfway to the 5th floor. 

That is when he slams himself against you. And he had not meant it to be a chance event. After all, very few people manage to end up successfully grabbing both their target's wrists when they 'accidentally' force physical contact onto them.

You remember the dull feel of your back connecting with the whitewashed wall. In spite of the dim fluorescent light overhead you can still make out the feral desire in his eyes. You merely smirk to him in reply – as if issuing him a challenge.

He accepts it; and you win.

So easy it was to make the boy admit to his wants.

You do not object to him undoing the buttons of your shirt; you do not object to him raking his fingers down your torso while making his lust known through growling nips against your skin. All that matters is that he has lost – because he *desires*.

Therefore, it is only natural that you hardly notice how far he had gone until a sudden chill around your hips ensnares your attention. You look down in time to catch him swallowing you – whole.

You gasp – whether it is in shock, pleasure or lust it is unclear. But you have made vocal the sensations felt in that single instant, and for the first time in a very long time you feel betrayed… by none other than yourself. Yet it is hard to concentrate on the shame when the boy is so focused on his task, is it not? Hips begin to move on their own accord to meeting the working mouth as vision becomes blurred in the dangerous binding of heat and lust.

Somewhere amidst the dizzying passion you remember where you are.

More importantly, you remember *who* you are. 

You force yourself to ignore the pleasure you derive from his determined tasting, and having successfully done so you push him away roughly. He stumbles backwards and lands soundly against the cold concrete floor. 

You look dishevelled; if one may be so bold as to point it out to you.

And him? Why, he appears completely innocent of the knowledge of what his expert workings have done to you. You decide to seize the chance when it presented itself to you and quickly replace your flustered poise with a façade of annoyance and anger. The clouded glaze over the boy's eyes only clears a second later, and you fall back into the calm of knowing that you have not given away any signs of your want.

You lean away from him, quickly doing up your buttons and zipper before striding over to him in your usual domineering manner. You grab his arm roughly and yank him to his feet before turning the tables on him by throwing him against the wall. The contact is sharp and sudden, and the force of it straightens the boy's back at once. He utters a high-pitched gasp as pain travels into his bones, but you choose to ignore his plight and tear your gaze away to continue making for your destination. That will be his punishment until then.

The final flight of stairs is quickly covered, and you twist the doorknob without hesitance. You exit the damp-feeling staircase to reach the air-conditioned corridor of the hotel. Looking back, you note that the boy hasn't moved from his spot at all. Instead he had spent the entire time glaring daggers at you – as if it will have any sort of an effect on you.

A hand on your hip, you continue to hold the door open for him while feeling the rush of cold air past your heated skin. He knows how unwise it will be to disobey you, doesn't he?

Of course he does. He isn't stupid. Stubborn, perhaps. But definitely not stupid.

So he obeys – as always.

You watch him as he withdraws the key from his pocket; the metallic object nearly slips from his trembling fingers when it bangs awkwardly against the doorknob. You dig both hands into your pockets while glaring at the boy contemptuously. Can't he ever do anything right?

Safely hidden away from his view, the fingers in your pockets shiver with restrained hunger.

The door slides open with a dispirited creak. He steps into the room first, having been the one who unlocked the door. You follow closely – perhaps a little too close for his comfort. He casts a glance towards you out of a corner of his eye, just in time to see you nudging the door shut and letting the automatic lock take over. The emotions in his eyes do not escape your notice.

He turns around to meet your gaze, the process requiring him to lift his head towards you. It is not to say that the boy is short, but next to him you tend to cut an imposing figure. 

And with him… you play the dominant figure. 

He knows it as well as: it's another rule of this mating game.

It is in a blur of movements that two bodies meet halfway, each reaching out to pull the other further inwards and towards; when lips and tongue mash together in a demanding dance; and when fingers seem to change to claws in all their violent scrapping and tearing.

Desire ravages; it claims and destroys all in the same instant.

Desire speaks – not in words but in actions.

Such a perilous, treacherous dance.

He takes your act of crushing him into the scratchy carpet without complaint. Actually, it probably has more to do with his inability to form coherent words than anything else. It is already near impossible to remember to breathe, let alone gather enough air in his lungs for human speech. But still he manages to recall the steps – it is evident in his arched back and tight hold around your back as you fall to claim his willing flesh.

It's a push-and-pull sort of coupling; one where both parties seem to have forgotten their roles and simply choose to go with whatever flow they seem to feel. 

It's broken.

It's lustful.

It's over.

You gulp down a moan as soon as it forms, instead settling to snarl with savage anger against the crook of his neck. He must know where he belongs in this arrangement even when his desires are stronger. 

Yet when you feel him trembling against your embrace you automatically tighten your hold on him. 

You remain as thus for perhaps several minutes. At length his breathing steadies and you pull back to look at him. He is close to falling asleep, so you brush the few strands of brown from his eyes so that they no longer irritate his eyelids before you ease out of him. 

A soft sigh from him.

It sounds… pained.

Your eyes linger over his face, using the chance to study his features. As far as you can tell, there are no physical manifestations of his hurt. The reason for such a strange noise from him eludes you. 

You head for the washroom, expecting the boy to make for the bed on his own. But you end up returning to a slumbering figure still on the carpet, curled up in foetal position as a buffer against the cold. You mutter a curse under your breath – remonstrating his inability to take care of himself while taking the blanket from the edge of the bed. You flick the blanket open, ready to lay it over him when you recall his earlier lack of care for you several days ago.

You hesitate, but finally you drop the cover over him, if a little carelessly. It gathers around his lower body and leaves him exposed waist-up. You make a growling sound at the back of your throat as if annoyed before squatting down next to him to arrange the blanket over him better.

A deliberate brushing of his cheek with the back of your hand – he is still warm from desire. 

You rise to your feet victoriously like a champion over his fallen foe.

But the fact that he had made you voice your own pleasure… well, it's still a fact, is it not?

The anger returns to your eyes – cold and sharp. The victory isn't as clear-cut as you have hoped it to be. You walk over to the bedside table where the notepad rests, tearing a sheet off before bringing your pen nib onto the yellow-white surface. Once the note is written you hold it a short distance away as if to inspect it. A satisfied smile touches your lips, and you put your pen away before folding the note up. You then stride over to his side, squatting down to nudge the note under his hand. 

His lips move once in the language of dreams, and the hand closes over the note before he curls himself up even harder. 

Your chest tightens briefly, but the sensation fades as soon as you turn away from him and exit the room.

The walk to your vehicle had been purposeful – to leave at once. You sit yourself in the car and make to buckle on the safety belt, only to catch sight of something white in the back seats.

His groceries.

You can feel your lips turning downwards; feel your eyebrows knitting as if perplexed. But the course of action is an obvious one.

Almost dutifully you bring the plastic bags to the front desk. The receptionist raises an eyebrow briefly before remembering her manners. You give her but the plainest instructions - that these items belong to the guest in your room, and you will appreciate it if she will remember to hand them over to him when he is leaving the hotel.

Nodding, she notes down your instructions and assures you that she will see that the items are returned to their rightful owner. You don't expect anything less from her at any rate.

It will be very incriminating, after all, if any one member of Schwarz stumbles upon those bags in your car. Usually they take turns to do your shopping for you, and to see you returning with such an assortment of food items... Yes, it will definitely not sit well with them. Especially Schuldich. You will no doubt be questioned, and that is not something you want to face.

There is a niggling at the back of your head – to drop by the room and check on the boy. You no doubt intend the purpose of the visit to be one for gloating or mockery. But there is a small part of you that is… shall we say – uncertain of your own intentions? Besides, what will you do if he is awake?

How will you react then?

You turn sharply away from the front desk and make for the carpark, forcing yourself to walk away with your curiosity unsatisfied. 

After all, it will be very interesting to see his face when he wakes up to the note, won't it?

_"Because I derive ample amusement from our arrangements." _

~ End chapter 3

-@-@-@-@-

Author's note: I swear – with these 2 guys it's only ever going to be sex, sex and more sex.__


	4. 4th Note

**Monochromatic Whispers ~ Salacious**

Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 4/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: Written in Ken's 2nd person POV. 

-@-@-@-@-

Rain.

It's wet, cold and generally unpleasant to be caught in; you have lost count of the number of stories that you have heard about people catching their death of flu from just one bout of natural shower. However, you always turn your nose up at such tales and immensely enjoy football games conducted during a downpour – one of those greater pleasures of life, you decided back then.

But it's funny, isn't it – walking alone in the rain? And you are using a deliberately slow pace at that. Against the rushing figures dotting the pavements your almost sluggish pace draws curious glances, before the onlookers decide that keeping themselves dry is of much higher priority than satisfying their wonderment towards a stranger's oddities. 

The rain beats down harder, the water collecting inside the plastic grocery bags that you half-drag, half-carry in your hands. Reflexively your fingers wind around the handles tighter, sealing off a larger portion of the bags' wide openings and effectively slowing down the rate at which the rainwater fills the bags. You had clean forgotten about them when you woke up a quarter of an hour ago, your immediate thoughts having been occupied by another. When the receptionist called out to you and waved the bags from behind the counter, you were tempted to just ignore her and walk straight out of the motel. But you will need an alibi when you return to the Koneko – even a weak one as such would have to suffice.

Besides, you don't want her to make any comments to the owner of the room, which will no doubt be the case had you just walked away and left the items with her.

_"Because I derive ample amusement from our arrangements." _

That had come like a sound slap across bared cheeks when you found the note tucked inside your clenched fist as you stirred. The anger the followed burnt viciously inside of you, blurring your mind and heart with confusion before pure rage took over. You didn't notice the carefully arranged blanket over you, but given your state of mind at that point in time it was a natural oversight. 

Note in hand you made for the washroom and stood under the running shower before you finally released the paper to the waters. You watched as ink seeped and snaked across the moist surface before the note was finally torn apart from the middle by the persistent pelting of the water. You refused to step away from under the water until the entire note dissolved into nothing, that being in spite of the fact that the water had been too hot for your comfort. One might have classified the water's temperature as scalding, seeing how red your skin was after you stepped out of the washroom. You didn't notice, though.

Because the anger had burnt more than the water ever could.

Yet right now the rain beats upon your skin with the same piercing bite of scalding water – only that it burns cold and replaces your normal body temperature with a coolness that grows inwards. But you are in no hurry to escape the torment, deriving from your present state a trance-like calm as you walk home under nature's waterworks. You do not notice yourself shivering involuntarily – your eyes remain fixed to the ground as you trace the path home. Water continues to soak into your clothes and hair, gradually weighing you down and slowing down your pace.

Body heat imprisoned under water-heavy fabrics, it creates the feeling of being cocooned by a loving embrace – something that you find foolish to hanker after when working in this line. Still, it remains a charming illusion to harbour.

It will be a very long walk home.

-@-@-@-@-

You push open the backdoor of the shop with your shoulder, not bothering to utter your usual greeting as you return. While you have not glanced at your watch on your way back, you know from the dying stream of headlights and weakening downpour that the hour is late. It works in your favour – you will be able to sneak in quietly and make it to your room without alerting the others; should your teammates beset questions upon you at least you will not have to face the music until the next day. 

Quietly you lower the bags to the floor, the contents inside cluttering against each other with wet sloshes. Inwardly you cringe, knowing what a chore it will be to dry all the groceries sufficiently for storing away so your teammates will not stumble upon a store-like display on the kitchen table tomorrow. 

You settle yourself onto the floor with a weary sigh, the wet denim pressing into you as it makes contact with the floorboard. For a moment you wonder if you have transformed into the equivalent of a human sponge, seeing how you drip and expel water with every tiny movement you make. Hands reach forward to grasp a shoe firmly before yanking it off, and then attention is turned to the next foot. All this while you are keenly aware of the fact that you are making a mess of the place, and it will take up a good part of the night just putting everything in order.

As if you do not already have enough on your plate.

A rustle from behind you, and instinctively you whip your head around to place a name to the source. It turns out to be unnecessary, for the 'source' has a name.

Fujimiya Aya, to be precise.

Gaping in shock is the first action that surfaces from you as turquoises meets calm amethysts. This is one person that you do not expect to run into at such an hour. If any such chance encounters were anticipated, you will be more inclined to believe that it will be Omi catching your return. But your eyes cannot deny the fact that it is not the lanky blonde standing before you; rather, the man who is taking the groceries to the kitchen is none other than your stoic redhead leader.

Strange, really – how he neither greets nor questions you, but simply carries your shopping away as if what he is seeing is nothing more than an everyday occurrence. To be frank it unnerves you, and your gaze never leaves him until he disappears into the kitchen. Blinking away the droplets that are draining from your locks and into your eyes, you return your attention to the remaining shoe. It refuses to budge, and mouthing a curse you begin to remove it the slow way by untying the shoelace. Your fingers fumble in their task with great frequency – perhaps it is due to the slippery surface of the lace as a result of the rain. Or else, it is the steadily approaching footsteps that have stolen your attention from the task. Ears practically prick up the moment the footfalls cease, and slowly you turn around, wary of what you may find awaiting you.

You nearly bump your nose against the offered hand, a gesture that you do not expect from your leader. Quickly you kick off the annoying shoe and place a wet hand into the extended one, cringing inwardly at the thought of Aya's almost-certain annoyance at you for daring to touch his clean limb with your dirty paw. But he is the instigator of this action, is he not?

He closes his fingers around you and pulls you to your feet. The warmth from his flesh feels awkward against your rain-chilled skin, but you can spare little vigilance towards such trivialities. As he leads you back to your room, you wonder to yourself about the pending interrogation that Aya must be running through his head right now. Your footsteps seem clownish compared to his steady, straight-walking ones as the both of you ascend the staircase to your room, and for a minute there you fear that you may end up tripping and pulling the man down with you. 

Almost intuitively, his grasp tightens around your hand. The movement causes you to jolt slightly at the sudden onslaught of human heat before your body relaxes. 

He leads you back to your room and releases your hand as he pushes you down to sit on bed; you miss the warmth of his touch almost immediately. 

You look up, expecting him to have already left. Instead you find him approaching you, a towel from your dresser in hand. Carefully he drapes the towel around you, muttering in his usual no-nonsense tone, "Dry yourself now, or you'll catch a cold."

When he spoke, all illusions had shattered. 

With a limp hand you take a corner of the towel to your face and wipe feebly at your skin – the well-worn towel soaks up the raindrops easily. The action invokes the welcomed return of heat from within you to return to warm your skin, and within seconds you bring both hands into the job of rubbing yourself dry. 

He stands just two feet away, arms hanging by his sides as he continues to monitor your movements. When you finally end your ritual he takes the towel from your lax grasp before heading out of the room.

He stops at the doorway and turns around to face you- the dim orange glow of the corridor light bathing his features with a tender glow. One hand pressing against the doorframe and the other still holding your towel, he speaks in a softer (or will you say, more caring?) voice:

"If you need anything, Ken, we are here."

You lift your head and watch him as he peels his gaze away to continue his leave. You raise a hand jerkily the moment the tall figure disappears behind the walls, mouth hanging open as you flex your fingers apprehensively. Dare you call the retreating figure back?

Turquoises downcast, your arm drops to rest beside your thigh on the mattress. You dare not – not because you are afraid to face an outright refusal to your request. You are somehow certain that the man will stay the night as long as you make your request known. But you are worried that you may talk too much and reveal the damned truth – a fatal weakness of yours.

This is your burden; you will trouble no other with your fears. Neither will you give them the chance to see your fragility.

They will see a smiling Ken for as long as possible.

-@-@-@-@-

Sleep is fitful for you. Deriving complete rest after experiencing such logic-defying pleasures is a feat best left to Goliath to accomplish, you decide as you rub the images from your eyes.

… Is it really pleasure? 

Or is it a sort of pain that you have confused for sweet delight?

Your hand ceases in its motions as you sit yourself upright. Back slightly hunched you tilt your head towards the door – it's been shut. It must have been Aya coming back to check on you after you fell asleep last night, although you are sure that you did not manage to find sleep until near dawn. 

Why does he care, anyway?

Kicking off the tangled up blanket, you make for the washroom at the end of the corridor. The face that greets you in the mirror is not unexpected, but it causes you to jerk backwards before you recognise it as your own. 

No bloodshot eyes or puffy lids – good. At least you know for now that you had not accidentally revealed anything to Aya last night. 

But the darting eyes and messed up hair… well, they give away quite something else. Don't they, Ken?

Shoving the plug in place you let the sink fill until it threatens to overflow. You proceed to turn the tap off and with hands astride the basin you spend a minute or so just glaring at the face in the mirror. You then gather your fringe backwards in one sweeping movement and draw a deep breath – before you dunk your face right into the chilling water. 

Against the first rush of cold you almost release your held breath into the water, forcing you to fight against your reflexes as you hold yourself down. 

In this watery chasm, you lose track of time completely. Mentally counting the seconds that have since passed quickly falls out of rhythm. You only pull yourself out of the water after a dull stab signalling the need for fresh air registers in your chest cavity. 

Droplets splash liberally across the length of the room as you throw your head back carelessly to shake the water from your eyes. You blink to clear away the last few droplets before turning to look at the figure in the mirror. 

Better, you decide, as you regard the fresh-faced figure reflected back while you dry your fringe with your towel.

Now – time to go downstairs and tend to the shop. 

A quick change of attire later you are bouncing your way down the flight of wooden steps – a habit of yours ever since you first came to work in the Koneko, though it has become nothing more than a conditioned façade in the recent months. Halfway down the steps you hear the lanky blonde calling out to you:

"Oi, Ken – did you remember to get the marmalade yesterday?"

Oh, crap.

Yes, you remember the little jar of orange jelly on the shopping list perfectly – you even recall planning today's breakfast ahead of time when you first dropped the marmalade into your basket. But you don't remember taking it out of the wet plastic bags to dry last night. Come to think of it, you did not do anything with the groceries last night at all, right?

Double crap.

Your mind goes blank the moment you try to come up with a somewhat believable excuse as to why you 'forgot' about the marmalade yesterday; it will give you sufficient time to dry out the groceries before presenting the marmalade to Yohji at a later time.

You are about to lay out for the man the intricate plot that led to the thieving of your groceries by a bunch of young hooligans when a deep, steady voice sounds from the kitchen, "It's here, Yohji."

Aya – again.

You inhale sharply – now you'll have to try to come up with something to pull over Aya as well. And you know from experience that Aya is not an easy one to hoodwink. It must be some sort of a conspiracy theory, you assume – the way that Aya just crashed right into your mental explanation to Yohji.

"Oh good – thanks, Aya… Hey, why is the label all wrinkled and peeling?"

You fight the urge to just bolt to your room, only because of your overwhelming urge to hear Aya's reply to the blonde's question. You worry – because you do not know whose side Aya is standing on in this matter…

"I dropped it into the sink, Kudou."

"Alright, Aya – ease up on the last names, okay? Sheesh – you made it sound as if I were trying to pick a fight with you or something!"

By now, you are half-slumped against the wall, eyes wide with disbelief. Did Aya just take the rap for you? And for no apparent reason at that?

Perhaps it is raining cheesecakes too.

You draw a few deep breaths to still the mental processes that went spinning out of control only a moment ago before you continue towards the kitchen for breakfast. Yohji pops out of the kitchen so suddenly that he nearly crashes into you. Smiling around the slice of toast in his mouth, he utters something to you before he makes his way to the dining room. Either he had said "morning" or "odd thing" – you are not too concerned.

You peek around the doorway and into the kitchen. Aya is standing in front of the stove with his back facing you, making it hard to see what he is doing. You decide to not risk asking him and instead make for the cabinet to retrieve some cereal.

You catch sight of something familiar out of a corner of your eye and you turn to look at it – a new tin of coffee powder. Didn't you buy that yesterday…?

A good, hard look around the room yields the fact that all the items purchased yesterday on your shopping trip have been placed in their respective spots already – each looking dry and spotlessly clean. The only giveaway sign that they are indeed the ones you bought are the peeling labels on several items.

Swallowing awkwardly, you step closer to the redhead and whisper quietly, "Thanks."

"You're welcomed." He doesn't even look back at you – maybe he's been hypnotised by the ticking egg timer next to the pot of boiling water. You press no further and instead take your leave, feeling grateful for the man's quiet nature for once.

Did he do it out of concern, you wonder? Or did he do it for some other reasons?

You need not wonder for long. Later that afternoon during the off-peak hours, you catch him carrying a bouquet of flowers and walking out of the backdoor quietly. 

You recall the frequent afternoons when he disappears and does not reappear in the flower shop until two hours later – just as how Yohji sometimes take leave in the evenings (without a lady tucked under his arm, you note) and don't return until the next day, or Omi who spends strangely long hours alone in the mission room with the computer when there are no missions in sight.

They never explain their solitary activities to you; and neither do you to them. 

You had puzzled over the possibility of it being out of a peculiar form of consideration that they never ask for a reason when you disappear for several hours. They may notice your downcast gaze as you return from those mysterious trips, but they never did bother you over it.

The doorbell chimes as the last customer clears out of the shop. You pause in your tidying of the shop to glance around the emptied room – no one is there, not even your teammates…

You finally realise: that it is not out of respect for your privacy that they do not question you. Rather, it's because they do not want to give you a chance to turn around and set the same questions upon them.

They have their own secrets after all. Be they big ones or small ones, they are still secrets to be kept away from prying eyes and nosy parkers. Besides, you're just Ken in their eyes. How dangerous can your secrets be?

Sometimes, you wonder exactly what holds the four of you together.

-@-@-@-@-

Keeping things in is a sure-fire way to earn a one-way ticket to the mental institute; talking about them ensures that the air is cleared before missiles actually start flying.

Then again, there are those who say that keeping things in ensures that peace is maintained; by harnessing the power of Zen you will be able to disregard these trifling problems, and in time you won't even have to air these issues.

You don't know which is your preferred philosophy. Actually, you don't give a damn either way. All you know is that you have questions that need to be answered, and keeping them in will not help the process at all. 

Guess we know which philosophy you live by now, huh, Ken?

Your feet have taken you to a place where you might not have had the courage to venture to on any other day. You consider the possibly that you may be possessed by some evil spirit of sorts to actually have the guts to park your motorcycle in the parking lot of that particular building – to come in full view of the building's occupants. How big a risk are you taking exactly?  
  
Madness, you decide as you remove your helmet with shaking hands. This must be sheer madness.

A small part of you starts to yell, throwing every argument possible against the actions that you are about to take. To present yourself unarmed at the enemy headquarters is suicide; to show up when your knowledge of his workplace should be a secret is plain stupid; to turn up where it is not your usual meeting place…

_"Because I derive ample amusement from our arrangements."_

… You decide – routine be damned.

After putting the helmet away carefully, you turn to face the entrance of the building. Will it be wise to take the most direct route to your destination? Where your appearance is likely to attract violent reactions?

You consider the risks that you are taking – if you continue to take to the front lobby you will no doubt run the risk of being recognised, but there is also an equal chance of you being passed off as a regular young man; perhaps as visiting brother or cousin, but you're likely to be overlooked as a form of threat. On the other hand, sneaking in by the backdoor or by any other less direct means will practically guarantee the guards swarming over you if you are found out. 

But it doesn't really mean anything in view of the fact that the man is a clairvoyant, and he has probably anticipated your movements and is sending out instructions even as you wage a mental battle against yourself, no?

So you take the most direct approach by walking up the stone steps and passing through the automatic glass doors. One after another the stuffily suited men walk past you, occasionally throwing a curious glance at your casual attire. They seem larger and more imposing with their heavy suits on, and you can almost feel yourself shirking under their gaze. So it is with slightly hunched shoulders that you arrive at the large office billing near the reception counter.

Turquoises run over the rows of white words, your search being so intent that you effectively shut out the receptionists who are calling out to you asking if you need any assistance. It is, however, unlikely that you will turn over your questions to them even if you have heard them; you want your movements to remain discreet for as long as possible.

This is one of those fancy office buildings converted to a politician's headquarters – it is evident in the number of guards patrolling the place. The uniformed men take turns in making you uncomfortable through their glares, and it takes a while for you to realise that you have been skimming through the sea of block letters rather than actively reading them. Mentally berating yourself, you shift your weight to the other foot as you study the billing with a renewed look of concentration written across your features.

"Hidaka Ken?"

You spin around immediately, shocked to hear the utterance of your name. Inwardly you are yelling at yourself – if you had not turned around, you can still be passed off as a stranger in this place. As of now, you have acknowledged your identity in this building. The best thing that can happen to you right now is getting thrown out through the back. The worse thing… well, you don't really want to think about it.

You blink away the daze in your eyes and reply warily to the black-suited man standing a little too close to you – "That's me."

The man's expression is unreadable under his shades. He merely states for you to follow him before leading you to the elevator. You can hardly believe what is happening as you watch the elevator doors close, the tension in you evident through your restless fidgeting as you glance around the upwards-moving lift. 

Those are some really nice lighting… And are those mahogany engravings around the buttons? You are about to reach over and rub the carvings when…

"We're here, Mr. Hidaka. The office is the last on your left," Mr. Black Suit gestures to you as he holds the lift doors open. 

You lean out of the elevator to peek down the corridor – the door looks pretty far down… 

An impatient cough from Mr. Black Suit – an obvious hint from the man that he is not used to serving improperly dressed young men/boys like you. You mutter a soft apology as you back out of the elevator. You don't look away until the lift door closes completely, just to make sure that he doesn't pull out a gun on you when your back is turned. All Mr. Black Suit does is to snort in distaste as he disappears behind the classy-looking lift doors, distinctly directing the action at you. 

You just gotta love these self-important bodyguard types.

The soft 'ding' from the elevator on a lower floor signals your starting walk towards the office that was pointed out to you. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden door, ignoring all the others as you pass them. A slow burn begins to work its way down your throat and towards your chest – anger and confusion binding and stirring together as you envision the smug American standing before you; his pride of the moment will be his generous 'retrieval' of you from the lobby.

The gold-coloured door handle gives way easily under light pressure, and you swing the wooden door open to find… not him, but a female secretary typing away on her computer.

She looks up at you and smiles so sweetly that you question if you have been sent for by someone else – there is no way in hell anyone working for that bastard can smile so naturally. But before you can voice your concerns, she waves you towards a door hidden behind the one that you are now holding onto and speaks in a modest manner – "Mr. Crawford is waiting for you, Mr. Hidaka."

That bastard.

You nod in thanks to her before heading for the door. You hesitantly raise a hand as if to knock before entering, but the secretary moves ahead of you and knocks in your place.

"Come in."

You feel the first tingles running up your spine when that familiar voice sounds from behind the door. 

She opens the door for you and offers up another kind smile before announcing your presence to the raven-haired man seated behind a large brown desk, "Mr. Hidaka is here, sir." 

He waves a hand at her, effectively dismissing her from the room as she shuts you in together with him. As soon as you hear the door click shut you become overwhelmed by the same sense of foreboding that you feel whenever you are in *that* room with him. 

You look straight ahead, but not at him. You know that you are actively avoiding his gaze, because you understand that he can control you through his eyes alone – and you will not be intimidated today. Yet out of a corner of your eye you can make out the man gesturing towards the large leather-encased swivel chair directly in front of his table. Inwardly you are cautious of his generosity, but outwardly you show no hesitance as you move forward to take the offered seat. You remember that reluctance does not sit well with Brad Crawford, and it was a lesson that you will always remember.

The seat feels rigid under your weight, and you bounce a little on it as if to test its potential softness. The wheels emit a droll squeak, and your movements still almost immediately. 

At length you risk glancing upwards, expecting the man to be glaring at you or at the very least, pointing a gun at you. What you have not expected is to find him typing away on his silver laptop and looking all for the world as if you do not exist.

You open your mouth, ready to speak when he lifts his gaze up to meet yours. The message is unspoken but explicit:

_No words._

You swallow the words as they appear on the tip of your tongue. What you will give to just shout at him, to simply verbalise your questions. But he denies you of that, and in spite of your natural hotheadedness you know better than to go ahead with saying whatever that's on your mind. Not so much due to your fear of angering him (you can deal with that, but how, you'll figure out when it happens).

But more because of the fear of what you may forever change when you do speak.

So you settle for the more subtle method of watching him with unblinking eyes as he performs his mundane task of working on his laptop – quite forgetting that human beings are born with eyelids for a good reason.

Soon enough, your eyeballs start to feel too dry, and then your vision gets blurry. Eventually, you give up, and instead start checking out the interior of his generously furnished office – an overly fancy cover for a bodyguard in your opinion. Does that bastard politician need to put on such a show to hide his links with Eszett in the first place?

A growl emits from your abdominal region – curse the digestive juices for trying to squeeze nutrients out of your stomach walls. Inwardly, you feel a little self-conscious – show Brad Crawford just how great you are at taking care of your basic needs, won't you?

You note movement from behind the table, and you look to him just in time to catch something small and brown sailing through the air with your hands. Opening your fist, your first reaction is to blink in surprise at the item tossed to you: a piece of wrapped up pastry. Confused by his gesture, you warily glance to him as if seeking to know his meaning behind this little gift. Ambers meet your gaze coolly before their owner nudges a box in your direction – more of that funny brown stuff. Yet he does not say a single word all this while.

The whole 'no words' rule is getting on your nerves.

You decide to risk interpreting his actions in your own manner and begin to unwrap the pastry; your movements still abruptly when you catch wind of something hovering in the office ever since you stepped into it.

… The man is wearing cologne. The scent has wrapped itself around the various articles in the room – nothing heavy or overpowering, really. It's just a light but musky fragrance that commands presence. Rather like Brad Crawford, you figure, to pull out all stops for his office-worker cover. You don't remember him wearing any of that stuff when he's with…

Never mind.

You bring the pastry to your lips slowly, not really tasting it as you instead focus on his movements. He is still tapping on the keyboard and looking extremely busy, occasionally pausing in his work to study various folders; probably because his employer wanting to make the best use of his henchmen by getting them to do some of the office work as well. It sort of makes you wonder why did he even bother to send Mr. Black Suit to bring you here in the first place.

He suddenly leans back, practically squeezing himself into the back of his seat as he starts massaging his temples. At this you squirm uneasily, not knowing what you are expected to do. Somehow, you have never considered 'Schwarz' and 'stress' in the same sentence previously, and the situation at hand seems to imply the unconventional meeting of two such words.

The disconcerting quiet continues to linger in the air as he bends over behind his desk. You hear a cabinet being unlocked before a bottle is plonked onto the table. The label is turned away from you, so you are not sure what exactly are the contents of the bottle. But from the shape of the bottle and the colour of the liquid within, you are almost certain that the drink is an alcoholic one. He confirms your suspicion when he sits back up with an empty glass in each hand.

He does not ask you for your preferences, but proceeds to uncork the bottle and fill both glasses. The only sounds audible in the room is the muted popping of the cork, followed by the sloshing of liquid as it hits empty wineglasses.

All this while you are wondering to yourself his intentions. He could have ignored the fact that you came looking for him, or he could have chosen to have security toss you right out – either way he would have successfully discouraged the queries you barely dare to bring forth. Instead, you find yourself being shown to his office while he is busy working. When you show signs of being uncomfortable he offers you something to eat; and now you are about to be offered a toast?

'Bizarre' does not even begin to describe the situation.

He sets the bottle back down and corks it before lifting a glass to his lips. You note that the other glass is placed slightly forward – as if inviting you to take it for yourself. So you take the glass and begin to drink from it while keeping both eyes firmly locked on the man across the table. 

You wonder where is all this leading up to.

You need not wonder for long. 

He rises from his seat with the lazy confidence of a prowling jungle cat, still armed with his quarter-filled glass as he strides over to your side of the table.  

You can feel the distinct sharp edges of the alcohol-laden wine as it slides down the back of your throat – a sensations similar to your tangled insides as invoked by the nearing man. Every movement he makes throws off a tantalising faded smell of musk, and you find yourself automatically taking deeper breathes as if to catch more of that faint scent.

All of a sudden, he is too close for comfort – his breath coming to wash over your left cheek in small waves. The knots on your insides tighten considerably, and you may have lost grip of the empty glass if he had not reached over to catch hold of it. 

It's the musky-smelling cologne applied to his collarbone and on the underside of his wrists – it's driving you crazy. 

A warmth against your cheek – parted lips and a slyly tasting tongue pressing against chilled skin. He works his way down your cheek to your neck, and then he stops to breathe heated puffs of air against the moist skin. You are vaguely aware of his free hand working on the buttons of your shirt, being too distracted by his closeness in the meantime to really care. You want to reach over to touch him, but a part of you advises against the action.

With the shirt undone he pushes it halfway off your shoulders before taking a step back – as if to admire his handiwork while he takes another sip from his glass.

You shiver for reasons unknown.

The butterflies in your stomach flutter even more erratically as he undoes his stuffy black tie before your widening eyes. It must be the relaxed, erotic manner in which he drags the article off his body – you have never seen him that way before. Most of the time, you are too busy trying to ignore his domineering form as he takes you selfishly for his own wants. 

He closes in on you, and though his next movements are not unexpected, your body still persists in tensing up. You nearly gasp as he slips both arms around you to pull the tie over your eyes and tie a knot at the back of your head – effectively blindfolding you. What you really have to fight against, however, is the pooling heat and desire within you – the faint whiff of his cologne, his firm grasp, and dear God – the darkness that is now before you. Your instinct is to challenge the darkness before your eyes, to pull the tie off and snarl back at him; it's a human thing, you figure – the fear of not being able to see the most crucial moments.

Your lower body says otherwise – that this fear… is a deadly aphrodisiac. 

With the temporary loss of vision, your body compensates for it almost immediately due to years of honed instincts. You can practically register every movement he now makes, your skin reading the air currents stirred by his actions. As he leans in close his breathing sounds harsher than before. Whether this is due to your new sensitivity to the environment or his lust, you are not certain.

The sound of metal, followed by the sliding of leather against fabric; you know what that is.

His belt.

Your first reaction is to jerk yourself off the chair and take off the blindfold, the direction in which matters are heading being one that you do not want to partake in. But he is prepared for that – damn his precognition. 

He places on hand firmly on your bared chest and shoves you backwards the moment you start to rise from the seat. Your efforts thwarted, you grimace; you know that his only real advantage over you in this situation is the fact that you cannot see what he is doing. 

But to pull that blindfold away to see him for what he really is… that isn't a very tempting thought, is it?

You swallow nervously, knowing full well that you are able to deceive yourself this once – with no sense of sight to guide you this time, you can believe what you want to believe. And you want to believe that just this once he actually *cares* for you.

But deception… well, it will be very tempting to repeat this act time and again, no? In the end, you will set yourself up for a fall so great that you may never stand again.

Logic and desires are not to be discussed at the same moment.

You become almost passive as he moves behind you, expecting to receive a good lashing from the sadistic man. Instead he surprises you by taking both your hands and pulling them backwards before binding them to the chair's spine with the belt.

There is this other part of you that is a little disappointed that he had not chosen to fulfil your misgivings of him. A few red welts under him, you figure, will no doubt add to your loathing and thereby make easier for you to kill him when the day comes. 

Push and pull, push and pull, push and pull…

Some days, you don't even know what you want from him, or what you want of him.

You hear him making his way back in front of you, and you hunch yourself forward as if to hide from his scrutinising eyes. Tentatively you test your bounds – strong and tight. But belts are only so limited in their ability to secure a prisoner, especially to a chair. A few good twists and wriggles and you can probably break free of the belt's hold. But your curiosity gets the better of you and you are prepared to wait for him to reveal his purpose for doing so. 

Perhaps the surging urges in you accounts for some part of it as well?

You hear him picking up his glass again before he moves to stand within your personal space. You can almost feel those molten ambers piercing into you, boring into your flesh with a fierce intensity as he remains statue-like for longer than you find comfortable.

He runs a hand down your cheek before leaning in capture your lips with his own, the sudden heat and closeness pushing on your already stretched limits. His movements are calculated and precise as always – fingers dragging across your sensitive spots while his mouth works against your with vivid familiarity, causing your skin to tingle and your throat to constrict with soft moans as you move towards him to meet his kisses. 

He moves to slide the shirt completely off your shoulders, leaving it to hang around your lower arms instead before dragging his hand over your pants to work away the obstructing fasteners. Just as his hand makes contact with hard flesh, you feel a sudden trickle of liquid descending upon your neck and following a natural line down your body.

The scent is sharp and strong – he is spilling wine from his glass over you. The precise fall of the cool liquid over the same patch of skin can only mean that it is not an accident. You shamelessly groan into his eating mouth as the heat and the coolness striking at you from all points overpowers you completely. 

So this is what it is like to surrender to desires.

It's not so bad, really.

He pulls back from your lips, and automatically you lean forward with a choked gasp, wanting that warmth but not daring to ask for it. 

The stream of wine slows down and moments later, the glass is returned to the tabletop. The rustle of stiff fabric echoes in your ears as he shifts his posture to stoop over your neck. Teeth following lips closely to meet the wine-soaked skin with small nips. His tongue over your skin is warm, but as he follows the trail downwards he leaves behind the cold feel of emptiness.

You squirm openly when he reaches a particularly sensitive spot; he smiles against your flesh. You can feel heat rising in your cheeks, but whether it is due to your embarrassment or your heated wanting, you are unsure.

It all becomes clear the moment he closes his hand around your hardened flesh, his mouth never leaving your skin even as you arch and twist under his touches. The tingling feel of his skin on yours is intoxicating.

But even as he torments you with such erotic delights, another part of you wars with the base creature of lust within you. 

Why is he doing all this? 

Why do you want him to do this?

Why is he taking things so painfully slowly and sensually?

Why are you mewing like a kitten under his touch?

Why does he want to create the illusion that he cares about your needs?

Why do you want to believe that he is trying to trick you into thinking that he cares?

Why can't he seek physical gratifications from other willing, more attractive bodies?

Why do you go back to him, time after time, knowing that he will use you like a toy?

Why, indeed?

It is as if your mind has separated into two different fractions, both fighting against the same inclination without the benefit of knowledge to ground either case.

Because he knows that withholding knowledge gives him power, and to keep you guessing is but one of his ways of tying you to him. 

Do you regret giving him this power over you?

No, you shamelessly groan into his mouth as his touches become more demanding; you regret nothing in this.

Except… perhaps you regret agreeing to the rule of silence.

The faint whiff of cologne whips past you as he moves behind you to undo your bonds. You hope that he will remove the blindfold as well, but a part of you knows that it is purely wishful thinking; your only hope to regaining your eyesight is to take off the tie yourself, but he moves in anticipation of your hands raising to do so – effectively catching one wrist with a hand still holding the belt.

Leather, metal, heat and musk.

You freeze in your movements, stopping to swallow the lump in your throat as his hold loosens. The belt hits the carpeted ground with a muted 'thunk'. He swoops in front of you, stooping to run a tongue down the trail that the wine once took and revelling in manipulating your body for his enjoyment.

You feel hands coming around your waist. Moments later, you feel the giddy lifting of your body from the chair as he moves you without any prior indications of where he may be taking you. The trip is a short one that ends as abruptly as it begins, with him dumping you onto a hard wooden surface. A quick testing of the object with your hands and skin determines it to be none other than his sparse tabletop.

You first make to sit up, only to feel his palm pressing firmly against your chest as he forces you to lie flat on the table. A warm metallic surface makes contact with your back muscles – his laptop on standby. You try to shift into a more comfortable position, but you find your senses and motions jerking to a halt and instead focusing on a certain man when you register the sound of him unfastening his pants.

You cannot tell if that sick feeling in your stomach is due to the wine, or his lewd efforts.

You know where this is headed, but you cannot fight against it. Not so much because you are physically unable to – your hands are no longer bound; you can easily shove him backwards even as he is shedding you of your jeans now.

Rather, it is more due to the fact that you don't want to.

… You just hope that he remembered to lock the door.

The first few thrusts always hurt even though you always keep a certain tube handy. Some attribute that pain to fear while others argue that it is a result of lack of 'preparations'. You know better: it is the result of your constant denial towards your emotional and physical involvement with the enemy clairvoyant – like a reminder stab of where the both of you stand in this world and in this twisted arrangement:

_No words. Just sex._

Hurts like hell, doesn't it?

He pushes down against you just as you arch upwards – both meeting halfway in a vicious battle of teeth and tongue. You work your way down his throat, teeth scrapping against the exposed jugular almost carelessly. Against a certain spot on his skin you can taste the piercing bitterness of his musk-scented cologne, its pure artificialness a stark contrast to the human taste of sweat and desire. 

So you bite down on him harder as if to test for a human reaction, marking him as he always marks you – letting him feel the pain that you feel ensnaring the lower half of your body. He arches a little closer to you, muscles squeezing together briefly as your teeth scrap his skin. You consider that to be a fair exchange.

One particularly well placed touch, combined lethally with a deep, delicious thrust.

And you betray your confusion in a forbidden cry:

"Brad…"

The moment the word leaves your mouth your rhythmic meeting against his movements stop, knowing for the first time what utter panic must feel like. You unwittingly tremble in his hold, your mind racing through the possible punishment that he may have for you for breaking the most fundamental rule of the agreement.

He does not fulfil your misgivings, though – and he had not lost his pace the entire time either. To make up for your lack of motions his fingers dig deeper into your hips as he shoves harder into you instead. 

Maybe he didn't hear you; maybe you are just too sensitive…

But he heard you perfectly – it is evident in his mouth moving over yours to seize your lower lips in a harsh bite. The soft insides of your lips give way readily to his sharp canines, a small burst of coppery sweetness trailing along your taste buds as the seconds tick away. The combination of blood, pain and lust bind and interweave to entrap logic in a deadly web of pleasure – a feeling that can be amplified only if you shatter the barrier that you have placed between your heart and reason.

It breaks down all too easily, and you give yourself to him. Completely.

You can hear his breathes coming faster and hitting your cheek – he is almost as close as you are to the edge. 

That final crushing hold, just as he sinks his teeth further into the soft sweetness of your mouth. The last few thrusts crush almost too painfully into you, forcing from you a gasp while it mingles with the agony of his still scrapping teeth. 

You trash forcefully under him, your limits pushed and shoved into a perfect surrender. You barely have time to register the abrupt shifting of the laptop under you as your left shoulder connects with it. There is a dull thud as the laptop hits his chair before it bounces eagerly off and onto the floor instead with a loud crash.

You can hear it splintering into bits, just as clearly as you hear him snarling next to your ear.

He lets go of you in the same moment he withdraws from your tightly coiled body. The sudden loss of heat and support causes you to stumble, and you make a hurried grab for the sides of the table. 

A sweeping brush of your hand that would have propelled a bottle towards the same fate as the laptop, had he not already foreseen your carelessness; he catches the falling object effortlessly as it smacks right into his palm, and then he reaches behind you to jerk the tie off your head.

White light comes rushing to flood your eyes so suddenly that you practically recoil from the brightness. He seizes you around the waist in time to stop you from joining the laptop, but he does not release you even when you show sign of being able to support yourself. You find yourself automatically pressing into his warm embrace, abandoning that screaming voice in your head for the first time.

What is he going to do about you breaking the rules, you wonder?

You feel his fingers twitch as he holds you – almost as if he knows what is going through your head at this moment.

… He may kill you. You are very aware of that possibility.

Because words can change too much; and if just one word is well chosen, it can be the very word that destroys everything.

You have a funny feeling that you won the first prize for the first time in your life, but somehow it is not an exhilarating experience…

You finally decide to risk glancing up at him – in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of affected ambers before they turn impassive once again. It is a sign that your time here is up. The question is will he… or won't he?

He lets go of you before firmly shoving you off his table. You oblige him and barely manage to find your feet when you first touch ground. 

A quick peek – he is not even looking at you. Rather, he appears to be calculating how to best put his table back into its original state. He does not return your gaze until he seems to have come up with a way of putting things back in order. 

He offers no words – just a hand pointed towards a door in a corner of the room. 

You obey him, and open the door to a personal washroom. Lovely.

Well, since he did offer it to you…

You dip a hand under the running water, noting how chilled the liquid is compared to the temperature of your flesh. More importantly, how cold this soothing water feels next to another equally soothing but much hotter touch…

What is on your mind now?

Questions.

What sort of questions?

Why doesn't he find another person to fuck around with? Why did he specify for you on that fateful night? And why, of all the ridiculous things you could have done, did you *accept* his offer? Better yet – why did you go back to him afterwards again and again?

Why?

… Yes, there had been this strange look in his eyes that day. You thought of it as sorrow, or perhaps a sort of regret within him. And you had began to make excuses for him – that he is only human, and that he can be felled should he try to breach the terms of this relationship. Besides, you do not find his offer as unpleasant as you initially thought it to be like.

You lean forward to look closer at the face in the mirror, reaching up to tug down your lower lip to inspect the damage. Yep – that's going to turn into an ulcer and hurt like crap tomorrow.

You look down at the running water and make to clean yourself of inculpating evidence, but your thoughts do not turn away from him:

Will you question him verbally later to seek the answers you so desire? As to why he find so much pleasure in the matings with you? It is unnatural to feel such intense desires when fucking an enemy. 

Of course we have a term for this too, Ken.

It's an idiom that goes 'pot calling the kettle black'.

You turn away from the scowling figure in the mirror, doing your best to appear unaffected when you brush past him as he makes his way to the washroom after you. You can feel his eyes boring into you as he marches past you in his usual superior manner, jacket and belt slung over his shoulder as he arranges his shirt while walking. 

Uncontrollably, you steal a glance at his exposed neck.

A ghost of a smirk dances across your lips as you note your own marks laid upon him skin, and in the same moment you close the collar of your shirt to hide his possessive branding. 

Beautiful, you note; simply beautiful when he wears them.

You run a hand along the top of his swivel chair while contemplating whether to take a seat or not – to basically wait for him to return so you can commence with your questions. But you hold back, knowing full well that he will not be so kind once he recovers from the heady post-coital experience. Water clears the head a little too well.

You look to his desk and chance upon a yellow post-it pad next to his beaten-looking laptop. Slightly apprehensive, you finger the small pad and test its weight on your palm, scowling to yourself as you realise that he may have left it there for you – deliberately.

So you take a nearby pen to hand and write in small, strong letters the question that is most pressing.

You leave before he comes out of the washroom, surprising the kindly secretary who barely has time to bid you a good day before you leave his office.

For good.

He will definitely not miss the note, though his reactions to it will be missed by your eyes.

_"Why can't you just admit that you need me? I hate playing your games, Brad."_

~ End chapter 4

-@-@-@-@-

Author's note: The story is dragging, and my interest in waning. At least the next chapter is the last in the series ^_^

As much as I prefer saying "Crawford" to "Brad", it seems annoyingly long for Ken to moan/groan/scream and write. So yeah.


	5. 5th Note

**Monochromatic Whispers Familiar**

Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 5/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Written in Crawford's 2nd person POV.

-----

You watch him as he peels off the written note from the rest of the pad; you watch him sticking it to the working surface of your table; you watch him as he leave. All these you have done in complete silence, knowing through your Gift exactly when it is your time to react. The temptation to simply walk over and question him nearly overrides the dictations of your Gift; but you resist with the least of visible effort.

Though, it does not reduce your contempt towards his actions in any manner. What he has done is done. And you are left to deal with the results of his conflicts whether you want to or not.

You begin to feel that this day had been a mistake all along – that perhaps summoning for him had done more damage than good.

Naturally, the notion of damage here extends beyond a physical one. But the physical ones are hard enough to ignore – you note that with a scowl as you brush a hand across your neck, tracing out the trail of tender skin with the pads of your fingers as you do so. Little sparks of heat meet your gliding hand as you pass over the reddish marks left on you.

He had marked you, as if he too owned a part of you, or even your whole being. The audacity of it all does not escape your notice.

After all, he is yours; never the other way round. His existence in your life is but one of the many interesting formulas added to the never-ending equation that defines your universe. The only problem resides in the fact that you do not know how this equation will... no, _should_ end.

Strange, is it not? A clairvoyant that questions the future?

Thirty minutes or less, the Devil had said to you – you may see no further than that.

The unknown is both a blessing and a curse.

You bend over to pick up the laptop from the floor, glowering as you recall how recently it was obtained. Balancing it on the palm of one hand, you push down the power button; you only manage to lose the tension in your shoulders only when the system boots up seamlessly to reveal that no data was lost in spite of the shock felt.

What now, Brad Crawford?

You uncurl your hands over the keypad, fingers positioning themselves to resume work once more. Your eyes never leave the screen as it glares blues and greens at you while it boots up, and your back is straight as you ready yourself for another hour or so of the daily grind. But your mind is not there, as is your...

Fingers jumping once, as if jolted by a short burst of electricity, before they settle back on the laptop a little tenser than before. However the action is hollow, your attention no longer hovering in the present.

No, what has transposed is not of importance. Never of importance.

No words. Just sex. No less than that and especially anything more, not even with the intimacy implied in that single word. He must have been simply lust-addled – in the most passionate of moments, in the moments before the passage to Hell, people are always known to declare what they never mean to say. It's a desperate plea of sorts, as if to holler out to the world one's ability to make it better for others. Selfish, cowardly.

And utterly, totally _believable_.

So it was one word. Just that one word; your name, his sin.

Maybe he thinks the sin goes back further, tracing back to the weeks before the very first strayed touch. Maybe for him it began the moment you had stepped into that restaurant that he was working undercover in. Maybe he thought that you might blow his cover and stubbornly refused to speak to you whenever you went there. Maybe you patronised that particular eatery more often just to elicit this amusement. Maybe you thought it was funny, so you did not use words with him either, the both of you settling for body language and gestures over the course of time – a spectacle for anyone who cared to look.

Maybes and maybes.

The only certainty, no, the only _damning_ certainty was that night, when the situation soured when his identity was made known just as his job was over. It had forced each of you to save the other at various points throughout that fight, a fight which you knew you had to be in. You had no stake in it, but he had a mission built all around it. But on the other hand back then you knew better than to question your Gift.

You had saved him, taking an eye and half the skull off a Neanderthal, and promptly began questioning yourself as to why you did so.

You ceased when minutes later he cuts open your would-be killer before your vision allows you to react.

It could have been the adrenaline. It could have been the need to strip away all that dirty, tainted blood. It could have been the frustration at being so close and yet so distanced for the entire month.

Whatever it was, it was a mistake.

A mistake when you turned to look at him as you pulled on your jacket – to see those eyes so quiet in their despair. As if you had painted that emotion on him.

You moved before you knew not to, caught his chin with your fingers and pulled him into your amber gaze, saying – "Next time will be like always. No words. Just this – you and me."

He glowered then, eyes ablaze with righteous anger. In trying to appear more in control he rendered himself more childlike in that instant.

"There will be no next time."

You remembered smirking, enjoying the way his muscles tensed and coiled as he pulled himself to full length in his semi-clothed state. The jeans that hung off his frame utterly failed to hide a semicircle of teethmark lovingly placed over the curve of his hip. The only reply you gave him was a quick jab towards your head, a reminder to him of your Gift.

It was almost mesmerising to watch the way colour drained from his cheek, because he does not know the limits of your abilities and had assumed that you had already seen him debauched by your hands yet again.

The truth is: you are as stranger to that future as he was.

After all, you had almost not foreseen taking his body for your own that night. Those flashes had burst into your consciousness only as your flesh first collided.

He parted his lips as if to retort, but you brought your fingers over them. It was a touch more than a press, certainly, and strangely he obeyed without another peep.

No words.

Just sex.

Perhaps it was a mistake: today's encounter, the encounter before this, and all those before. All fingers pointing back to that single night, no, that single moment of weakness. Could it possibly be due to weakness on your part that you gave in so readily to temptations back then?

But if that is weakness, then your clairvoyance itself is your tripping stone – for having told you to indulge.

Too much to consider, too much at stake that leaves you scowling as you push your glasses to the top of your head while tapping fingers at the meeting point of your crossed brows. Your Gift is never wrong, and should never be doubted, regardless of how infrequently it sends you those monochromatic splashes of him and him alone.

Only his are colourless. Surreal, like a movie from days past. Silent, like the days earlier, like this entire affair.

Why is he that one single formulae that corrupts the entire system?

You bring your fist banging to the tabletop, startling even yourself with the noise created. The burn of his marking fingers seem to flare up in that instant, but fade just as quickly. A quick return to the present where you are no longer focusing on.

You will not get anymore work done today.

Nor tomorrow.

Nor the day after.

Nor the weeks, months and years after.

The answer flickers into your head like an all-too elusive moth.

This has to end.

But only after you get all the answers to the strange riddle that he is. After that Hidaka Ken can cease to exist, and Brad Crawford can function with full, undivided attention once more.

You rise from your seat, absentmindedly rubbing at that spot on your neck, jerking your fingers away as if burnt when you realise what you are doing. The scowl on your face fades to nothingness as you glare at your disobedient hand, pondering an unseen future.

This has to end.

-----

You stir from your papers to the sound of a woodpecker outside the window. No, a woodpecker hammering against the inside of your skull: Schuldich's way of saying "I want to come in." You know that he is standing right outside your room, probably with his arms crossed over his chest while leaning next to the Monet. But Schuldich always did prefer mental to physical conversations. He used to spin up those ridiculous stories as to why he felt so – mostly vanity reasons, or a desire to flaunt his potency as a telepath. But one particular reason stuck in your head:

"I hate the way you look at me when you talk. Or when you talk to others for that matter – like you already know what we are going to say."

Naturally, you remember thinking to yourself: natural that you will give that impression since you do oftentimes know what the future holds and therefore have little time for the spoken words themselves, having already heard them once in your head. The mental words tends to escape your clairvoyance better, thus Schuldich's preference for them when conversing one-on-one with you.

The woodpecker morphs into a buzzing hornet.

Better to answer him now, or he will never leave you alone.

He walks, no, practically _struts_ into your mind the second you lower your shields to him. Catlike and quiet, a proud feline swagger in his hips – his way of announcing that he is holding onto some very interesting information. Either that, or he has some intriguing questions that need answering.

This is not a good time.

But then again, there is never a good time for Schuldich's nonsense.

'Hey, Mein Herr.'

You do not reply – there is no point wasting words when you know that he is simply baiting you. Plus, he will eventually give in and open his yapper, because this is the Schuldich you know.

Silence.

You can almost see him casually buffing his nails against his chest while smirking through that thick white wall. It's another one of those contest of wills that he so likes to enact with you every now and then to see who speaks first. The record is at an even so far – his patience is just as short as your fuse.

But not tonight, it seems. If anything, he seems to be going for a marathon of sorts.

You give him a prompt, because he is draining away precious seconds of your time that can be better spent than sparring with a telepath:

'I am busy.'

At that he practically rolls his eyes. 'When are you never?'

You mentally cock an eyebrow, making it clear that you are not amused by this cat-and-mouse conversation that seems to be brewing between you. It will be wise for him to take a hint now, before you shut him out of your head – slam your mental shields down over his metaphorical fingers if you will. And he does.

'It's about the job tonight.'

You pick up the stack of papers you were reading to neaten them. Perhaps you are trying to turn away from the potential path that this conversation may lead you down? Oops – I forgot – you are a clairvoyant after all. Surely you know where all this is going, right, Crawford?

You shake your head, picking up a pen and holding it in midair as if pondering what to write, then lowering it at last. If you are going to tackle this conversation, you might as well have all your wits about you.

'What about it?'

He twists and stretches himself – he must be doing that right now. As if the low thud from outside is not enough of a giveaway. 'I was just thinking... this weapons deal isn't our beat, Crawford. We have nothing to gain from it, and for all you know, Weiss is going to be on scene.'

Click.

No, no – not now. Now is definitely the wrong time to see that, to see him. But the images flash too fast for you to catch, each sweeping past your imaginary barriers like sand through fingers. You scramble to stop them, helpless like a child trying to save a goldfish with a sieve.

Get those monochromatic whisperings out of your head, fast.

'Oh. OH.'

You need to stop his line of thought now, stop him right n...

'Precisely my reason.' Let him stew on that for a few moments. Anything to buy you time for this.

He hums and haws for a stretch, making it seem almost like a jaw exercise. His exaggerated knitting of eyebrows can be felt inside your head, like a rap on the knuckles.

"Crawford," he utters suddenly.

The door swings open without the knock you often remind him to make. Your eyes meet, both shadowed by the lonely dimness of your reading lamp-lit room. He can read your mind, that you know. But when it comes to reading bodies, you are far better than him. The odds shift dramatically once outside of the mental realm.

That one, he knows.

He makes to move closer to you, stopping just a foot from your personal space. There is a sharp pull in his jaw line, like he is contemplating words too hard to form. All would have been silent except for the steady draws of breathes in your suddenly suffocating room. Similar to breathing through a damp paper bag.

He thumps his hand down on your desk – too loud in the stifling stillness. It is not a rude gesture nor an aggressive one; just a reminder of where you both are right now if you will.

Schuldich's nasal voice fills the room like a low rumble of thunder, "You know what Kryptonite is, right?"

... Where did that come from?

You will humour him with but a narrowing of your eyes – games have no place here. Especially given what had just transposed between your minds.

He catches your eye briefly, then turns away as if singed, casting his glance towards the small pewter clock to the left of your hand.

"Yeah, I guess so, what's with you being American and all." His tone is oddly dulled for the words he mutters with virtually unmoving lips.

Is that all? Did he come just to make stupid quips as such at you? You automatically lean your temple into your propped-up hand, frowning as you speak, "Schuldich, we have work to do tonight as you've so kindly noted. If this is all you have to say..."

Another thump – the other hand is lowered, and he is hunched over your table, leaning in close as his eyes sparkle a rich blue once in the glare of the light. He is carefully avoiding your personal space still.

In moments like these silence is pregnant with meaning. Pregnant with things that should be said but cannot be said. Because this is Schwarz, and you are their leader. Some lines will always be drawn and respected.

When he opens his mouth next, the words linger in your head for longer than they should:

"Do yourself a favour, Crawford – don't react like Superman does."

The meaning is not lost to you, but that is assuming that he knows what is going on. What has been going on. What should not have been going on.

What now, Brad Crawford?

The door opens before you know it, his shadow bleeding out after him as he departs. The white smear of fluorescent light from the corridors stains your carpet for just a while too long, then swallows itself up as the doorknob clicks softly.

It is easy for him to use that analogy, easy for him to get away with it. Because at least Superman knows what he is going up against.

Sometimes they expect too much of you.

Brad Crawford – clairvoyant and Schwarz. That is all the world wants of you, and everything else be damned.

-----

The sliver of grinding stone makes sharp scratching sounds as they swish against the blades of his bugnuks. Normally a few well-placed strokes and the task is completed, but today they continue longer than usual. He must be distracted.

As if that faraway, empty look in those turquoises is not enough of a hint.

Aya thought it was enough, though. Yohji would have cleared his throat; Omi would have asked him if he was alright. But not Aya – he settled for just walking into the basement, and that was sufficient to alert him to the fact that he was no longer alone.

His eyes flare briefly, as if inwardly berating himself for having been distracted in his task. Distracted by something that should not have bothered him so. That should not have bothered you so for that matter.

"We have a mission tonight intercepting a mob weapon shipment." Aya says it to no one in particular.

He lifts his head towards their team leader, saying, "Yeah, I got the file. We head out at one tonight?"

Aya nods while keeping his eyes on him. He would have turned away, but the redhead's gaze was steady as if intending to speak soon again.

"Ken." The name is breathed out rather than spoken. Then amethyst eyes tip away from him completely, and it only peaks the boy's curiosity further.

"This has to end."

He was in the process of rising to his feet when those words were formed. Blood drains from his face and drops right into the pit of his belly – it is that strong a fight-or-flight reaction. Yet he still manages to find his own, slightly shaky voice:

"What has to end?"

Aya's eyes say enough, but as if to twist the knife further he throws in contradictions to them, "Whatever that is making you this way."

He boggles, a huffing sound that was to be a scoff coming out winded instead. He is not aware of how his hands have clenched into fists by then.

"You mean, making me sad?"

Softly, with the concern of a teammate and nothing more – "Are you?"

He sucks in air like a man drawing a dying breath, then gives their leader a lop-sided smile.

"Nah, I'm cool. I'm Weiss, remember? If we don't look after the innocent, who does? How can anyone be sad if he is doing something so worthwhile?"

He is Weiss. Your polar opposite.

Aya gives him a look that can only be described as cautious, but there is still some level of privacy in their lives that they do not share, or do not broach even when known. Maybe he thinks that his leader is only guessing – calling his bluff to try and find out the reason for his listlessness in the week after his most recent afternoon disappearance from the Koneko.

He will not reveal anything.

He is Weiss – his word is honour.

Are yours?

-----

The walls of the warehouse make for poor buffers against the annoying foghorn bellows from the nearby docks. Perhaps the first few times it is still bearable, but an hour into the wait instead of becoming a background noise it sounds louder than ever, drowning out words before they can even hit the airwaves. Nagi has long given up on trying to hold small talk with you and has moved over to his own stakeout point.

You shift around the holster strapped under your jacket, the gunmetal warm against your skin after such a fruitless wait. They shouldn't have to be here, you know that. But to come out on the pretext of a solo mission is at best questionable, at worst begging for interference. A compromise had to be reached.

_"Retrieve crate R-56A4. If Weiss turns up, take them out and leave. Don't come back for me if I do not follow."_

"Why?" Nagi had asked when he first heard the instructions.

All it took was one firm glare from you, and he understood at once:

No one questions your orders. Ever.

Several crates away Schuldich fidgets, flicking bits of sawdust in the general direction of Nagi with his thumb and index finger. They bounce harmlessly off the boy's low-humming PSI shield. Farfarello is not involved tonight (an unnecessary addition to an already overstaffed situation) – you gave orders that he was to stay home since you expect this night to proceed as planned.

You of course know that there are two plans tonight – one for Schwarz, one for Brad Crawford.

The clacking snaps of metal rollers opening upwards, loud enough to drown out the next foghorn bellow. The entrance of a forklift follows that sound, its slow progress indicative that it is carrying a load of freshly-unloaded cargo. The kind of cargo that only moves at night. You shift your balance from one foot to another, gesturing to Nagi and Schuldich to be ready.

A flash – movement of red hair, the shimmering glow of a katana before it dips itself into a blossoming well of crimson. The forklift rolls backwards, its driver panicking, so much so that he backs right into a tall stack of crates. The thunderous collapse of the wooden boxes drowns out his screams and alerts his associates – everyone last one of them.

Pandemonium.

Blink, and back to the real world again.

It will be wise to move your team out of the way and put them in a better position to complete their phony task.

At the back of your head, you can almost feel Schuldich's eyes burning into you.

You move away from your hiding place just as the scene replays itself for real this time, a signal to the other two to proceed as discussed. Schuldich leads Nagi around the mass of fighting bodies in the centre of the warehouse – in a direction distinctly opposite of yours.

Now.

Now, what do you do?

You cannot wait for a vision to come to you, knowing full well that this boy eludes them. You cannot go to where all the clashes are taking place, because then you will draw the attention of his teammates. Taking them on is not a problem, but it is a waste of time and can jeopardise all your plans.

You pull your gun out from the holster, pulling the safety catch back towards yourself and thumbing it lightly as if considering something. Flick it back on, then off soon after.

He will know that it's your gun; he will know that it is you.

One sharp crack of thunder ringing out – too loud in the confines of bricks and concrete. Too much attention, especially when you alone are the possessor of firearms in this room.

The fighting in the centre stills. So quiet that you can hear a pin drop.

"Who fired?" Aya's voice rips through the silence. He must be glaring daggers at everyone around him right now, be they friend or foe.

"Whose gun is that?" He demands once more.

No one speaks, but then someone starts yelling. The sound that comes after is like a metal pole smashing clean through a plank of wood. A crude version of a war trumpet, and the fighting resumes from where it has left off. As if there had been no gunshot in the first place.

You tighten your grip on the handle, reassuring yourself that it was real. That the pause was not a figment of your imagination, but that you have made it. And that the message has been conveyed. So all you have to do now is...

And just like that he appears in front of you.

Even though you stand easily twenty paces apart, it is hard to miss the sharp anger in his eyes. Those turquoise blues – ringed by shadows of restless sleep. They make his face darker, his emotions richer.

What must be going through his mind now? To see you at his 'workplace' so brazenly announcing your presence? To put everything that he values at stake?

Does he remember doing the same to you just seven days ago? Arriving at your office, making it painfully obvious to anyone who cared to ponder aware of the fact that surely the two of you must have a history together?

Tit-for-tat. Your calculated moves for his rashness of youth.

Games. What you have been playing with him, what he responds to.

You aim your gun at him just as he charges. Not madly like a crazed beast, but with instincts flowing through his veins that pulls him into a low dash, ready to swerve from your line of fire if you do pull the trigger.

You know you can move faster than he can, than he ever can. The safety catch is already off, and your finger is already locked over the trigger. That practiced squeeze should not take more than a few pounds of pressure to complete. If he swerves now, looking at the angle of his run you know he will be shifting himself leftwards, as will your hand.

A perfect kill.

But only if you take it.

Crawford?

He is nearing. The aim can only get better.

So fast – he advances like a big cat, hands at ready to spread and tear.

... Brad?

Click.

Slow, too slow.

You can feel yourself being propelled backwards, driven by the momentum of his lunge. He grasps true around your middle, knocking you right off your feet and sending you both skidding backwards and right into a forest of discarded planks.

The first half a second of contact with your back knocks the wind right out of your lungs, leaving you with just enough time to look up and see the rain of splinters and wood. Training would have taken over if his did not rear up – with him winding his legs around yours and twisting the both of you out and away from the shower of debris.

A sandstorm of hollow-sounding thuds and sawdust. Too loud to your ears, but too soft for the rest of Weiss to hear over their own commotion.

It is only with instinct that you hold him close and curve protectively over him. Like a father will for his son. Like a fireman will for a victim. Like a lover will for his...

His coughing derails all trains of thoughts at once. It's enough to distract you such that he is able to wind his arms around your neck, around where he once marked. Anger spits in you at that touch and with a low snarl your hand around his back tears upwards to seize at his throat – completely automatic.

Maybe it is automatic too for him to roughen his touch, to use raw force alone to slam you onto your side and pin you there. You were not prepared for that, because you expected better from him. But your hand stays firmly locked around his throat, not so much squeezing as holding.

He blinks the sawdust away from his eyes. Blue into gold. Breathing so loudly that it is like air being drawn through a wide chamber. The adrenaline in you has quickened your breathing as well, leaving the both of you heaving and staring at each other in the manner of locked rams.

Perhaps this is how the affair will end – with one dying at the hand of the other.

His eyes squeeze shut as if he is about to cough again, and you use the chance to reassert your dominance once more, smoothly snaking out of his pin before arching him backwards into a different pinning fall.

You have his wrists locked to the sides of his head by the time the first cough escapes him.

Only when this close do you finally see that it's not the rings around his eyes that darken his features, but the shadows that cast over him when you press so intimately together. It's that curve of his cheekbones that cause this odd play of lights and darks on his skin. The skin that you should not be touching, particularly now.

But it is so _familiar_.

You take one hand off of him, knowing from the look in his eyes that he will not strike you then. Bring that hand up to his chin to tip his face upwards – eye to eye.

The beep of his intercom is most unwelcomed.

"Ken? Where are you?"

Outside of this universe, the fighting has stopped. His eyes widen as if wakened from a dream before he scrambles to pull the dangling intercom up to his face.

"I'm here. I'm okay. I just..." his eyes dart about the confines of the warehouse – at everywhere but you. Scuffing his freed hand through his hair he fumbles awkwardly for an excuse, any excuse that he can use. Maybe that is why he knows better than to look at you, to expect a rescue from you.

Still you lean in next to his ear, and his breath catches in his throat. Are you going to...

One long, sensuous movement of your tongue tip from the top of his earlobe, curving right down to the bottom.

He shivers so, so sweetly, lower lips disappearing between his teeth to stop himself from saying anything inappropriate to the listener on the intercom. Which by now has to be 'listeners', you think to yourself, considering how quiet the place has become.

He will not give the game away.

His word is honour.

But still...

"Cleanup." You bite the word into his ear. More accurately, you simultaneously breathed and bit the word out to him.

His muscles seize up at once, tightening around each other. Freezing like a deer caught in a headlight so to speak.

Something snaps, cracks, then shatters.

It could be his ability to think, you muse.

Or it could be this entire arrangement. How everything changes forever with one word. His was your name, and yours is his... way out.

"C... cleanup," he mutters into the intercom – still not looking at you, "I'll do cleanup tonight."

A different voice. "But Ken-kun, I'm supposed to..."

"Ken," another voice – pauses before speaking out again, "Do it, and find the person who fired that shot."

He nods, too dazed to realise that it cannot be seen through their intercom, then switches it off and drops it onto the floor. But he is still not looking at you.

_This has to end._

That remnant voice drums those words into your head once more. Too self-confident, too self-possessed. And sounding oddly like Schuldich's voice instead of your own. But maybe that voice is right, you decide, as you make to climb off the safety of warm familiarity.

Like lightning, he wraps his legs around your waist, locks and slams you back down before you are ready for it. You cannot break the hold with the angle that your arms are in, leaving you effectively held down by the boy.

This time, it is you who will not look at him.

It takes a long moment before something stirs the air – his hands lifting to cup your cheeks, to pull you in close for that first contact. Soft, dry lips pressing into yours and moving in ways that are not strange to you.

It is with routine familiarity that you arch your hand forward to dig into his lower lip, parting them for better access. More access. And he responds to them as he always does – always painfully slow, always willing in spite of it all.

In spite of it all.

He makes this noise in his throat when you push into the insides of his mouth, clamping that annoying tongue of his between teeth. Chiding him for words that he wants to speak – those silent whispers that you only ever seem to hear from his mouth. He responds by arching upwards against you, pressing your lower halves closer together if it is even possible, lips cracked in a soundless moan against your mouth.

Why are there so many things that can be heard even in his silence?

Steady hands, barely aquiver with... lust, no, hunger. Clutching at his jacket, his shirt, the seam of his jeans – the struggle to disrobe him is almost impossible when he does not want to relax his grip on you. Is he trying to change something here? Surely he has not forgotten now that it is still no...

Words.

... Something has changed.

He whines high in his nostrils, forlorn and feral like a cornered monster. The next thing you know those damning turquoises are on you, looking right past the amber and into someplace foreign. Someplace you do not want to acknowledge. Touches you right there.

You almost fail to register his hands now curled around your collar, tugging and yanking off your tie, not so much popping as fumbling off the buttons of your shirt. Taking charge from below.

Warm, wet air from the surroundings hits your bared skin and cleaves softly into you. His eyes soften at the first furrowing of your eyebrows, and you are not sure why that is so. Until he pads his fingers gently against your shoulder where an ugly bruise was starting to darken – most likely the result of being struck despite your attempt to protect the both of you from the shower of planks. You feel his legs slacken around you as he arches forward – not to kiss the wound, you both are beyond those tiresome displays – but to curve his fingers around it.

Is he... trying to measure it?

No, not quite. He is just looking at it, tilting his head as if to study it by a different light before finally turning his attention back to your eyes.

Why the eyes?

Kisses like he means it, like he wants it. Taking your stilled hands and placing them on his hips. Desire? Want? Need?

Permission.

This is not routine. You. Him. Like this.

Routine has long gone out of the window, hasn't it, Crawford?

You untuck his shirt, unfasten his jeans: revealing his skin to the artificial light that makes him look sickly under it. He in turn ghosts his hands over your legs, trailing them upwards to rest for but a moment before moving with renewed purpose.

That slow, dirty click of zipper teeth undoing

The night air hits crisp against hot flesh, but the cold does not linger for long. He manoeuvres himself unprepared onto you, supporting himself on your outstretched arms. Not wanting to wait, not willing to wait. Tempting poison on your skin.

Doesn't move, and just holds tight around you. Flexing, relaxing and adjusting to you – so unfamiliar for an otherwise familiar act. His breathes come shallow against your shoulder, but they are not the pained kind that you are so used to hearing from him. This one is steady, with its own rhythm.

Calming himself for something all-too new for the both of you.

Maybe that is why your chest feels so constricted from the lack of air; you have forgotten to breathe amidst it all.

He doesn't move until you catch up with him in terms of composure. How can he tell with that rapid thudding of your heart anyway? Or it can just be something simpler, like how your fingernails have stopped biting crescents into his hips, Crawford.

Moving firm like you forever do. Moving with you.

Simple, sensual and salacious.

Feeling him spent on you. Feeling yourself emptied into him – and still held safe, close and warm.

Familiar.

He does not release neither you nor your shoulders even then, clutching to them as he puffs against the skin there. It prickles your goosebumps, and instinctively you pull him closer to stay warm.

It takes almost too long for the both of you to come to your senses. For something akin to shame or shyness to take hold and make the both of you pull apart and robe yourselves once more.

You still cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye.

This had been... unplanned. Unexpected. But far from undesirable.

He clears his throat several times to shake off the last embarrassing traces of his growl-scratched vocal cords.

Slowly, almost uncertainly just as he clears his throat the last time, "So... what happens now?

Reflexively your shoulders tense, your frame stiffening. Tonight has brought too much of the unforeseen already, and now he is...

... He wants an answer.

He wants to know what has happened.

You half-turn to him, looking at him out of the corner of your eyes as you retrieve your glasses from a nearby spot. At length you speak the first words that come to your mind.

"Nothing changes."

He... blinks. Owlishly. It takes him several heartbeats to grasp at your words.

Perhaps the other reason why others dislike conversing with you may be because of your tendency to speak in unfathomable riddles, no?

He reaches forward to push a stray lock out from your eye, sliding his hand down the side of your eye before turning you to face him properly.

His eyes are so blue.

"But we can talk," he swallows, "right?"

You bring your hand up over his, pressing over it for the briefest of moments before peeling his away. There is the stirrings of a desire to just kiss him, to let him know through actions. But his preference for the tangible over the intangible – that part which you so take to – wants for something else from you.

"What do you think we are doing right now?" You say it, face expressionless as always.

Inside, your mind is not so still.

_It has ended._

Outside, he laughs. Like on that bright summer day to that kindly cashier.

He has a small laughline on the outside of his left eye. Something that you've never noticed before.

You decide that it is something that you can get used to seeing; that you like it.

You catch his hand, pressing something small into it before closing it and pushing his fist back towards him.

His laughter stills the moment he opens his hand to reveal a small fold of paper in it. At this he raises his eyebrows, wariness creeping into his eyes. At this you hold your gaze, your intentions clear only to yourself.

Some things, as we all know, will always need a closure.

When he puts the note away after reading it, the laughline is still there.

"Thank you."

End

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Author's note: And there you have it after more than a year of wait. I hope you've enjoyed this fic as much as I have writing it.


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